


Paper Dragons

by per_mare_ad_astra



Series: Shipmas 2018 [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - dorky retail worker meets dorkier apothecary assistant, Awkward Flirting, Christmas, Cultural Differences, French Scorpius Malfoy, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Painfully Monolingual Albus Potter, Pining That Could Be Avoided By Just Asking Your Crush Out For A Coffee, Potions, Pygmy Puffs, Scorpius Is A Bi(lingual) Disaster, Strangers to Lovers, Terrible French Accents, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, like... a lot of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 09:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17242064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/per_mare_ad_astra/pseuds/per_mare_ad_astra
Summary: The boy had come in earlier than usual that morning, and he was wearing those elegant plum robes again, and he had a small ink smudge on his cheek, and he was too beautiful, and Albus was too gay, and there was no way he could just go up to him andtalk.“Albus,” Rose said in a singsong voice, startling him out of his thoughts. “You’re staring again.”“No, I’m not,” he said quickly, straightening up and tugging at the sleeves of his robes. Rose just raised her eyebrows in disbelief, so he rolled his eyes at her. “Don’t you have a job you should be doing?”“Don’tyou?” she shot back immediately. “Because I don’t think your job entails staring at custo—”“The WonderWitch section’s running out of Flirting Fancies. Bye.”“Maybe you should try one, that way you’d pluck up the courage to talk to Blondie instead of staring and sighing dreamily while you should be working,” Rose countered sweetly.(In which Albus hates his job at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes with a passion, but the French boy who visits the shop every day and keeps smiling at him might make him change his mind.)





	Paper Dragons

“That’ll be six galleons, eight sickles.”

Albus stifled a yawn as his customer—a young witch who couldn’t be older than ten—took her time counting the money in her purse. After a small eternity, she handed him the required amount, and he quickly gave her back her change and a paper bag full of the Canary Creams she’d purchased.

“Thank you for shopping with us, we hope to see you again.” He knew he was supposed to say this with a bit more sass and enthusiasm, but he could barely muster that kind of energy on a good day, let alone on a Monday morning. Merlin, he would kill for a cup of coffee.

The witch beamed at him, and for a second he felt bad for being so impatient, but then she had to open her mouth and say, “Did you know your hat is lopsided? It looks silly.”

He held back a sigh.

“Thanks,” he muttered, reaching up a hand to straighten the hideously sparkly Santa hat that was now part of his uniform. He hated everything about it, from the obnoxious magenta colour to the too-large bobble.

The witch giggled, turned on her heel and quickly blended into the crowd. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was full to the brim, as it always was on Mondays, especially now that December was just around the corner. As it was finally time to start buying Christmas presents, it seemed that all of wizarding Britain had nothing better to do than visit the most popular joke shop in the country.

A sea of cloaks moved endlessly as people walked in and out, wandered along the aisles, bumped yet again into that cauldron of free Merrymaking Mélange—an extremely sugary drink whose effects resembled those of a Cheering Charm—that was going to tip over any day now… Albus cringed as a little boy stuck his hand straight into the Pygmy Puff cage and at least a dozen of the creatures immediately latched onto him—persuading them to let go would take _ages_.

Not for the first time, he regretted saying yes to Uncle Ron’s job offer. It paid well and he’d need the money when he eventually moved out of his parents' home, which would hopefully happen after he passed the Test of Aptitude for Professional Potioning—T.A.P.P. for short, though it was more commonly known as ‘Tap’—and finally got his Potioneer Licence next year, but there were some things that a monthly bag of Galleons couldn’t compensate for.

“Only one hour to go!” Rose said cheerfully as she walked past him, levitating a stack of Skiving Snackboxes. “And today’s been alright, hasn’t it?”

“Easy to say when you’re not working at the bloody till,” Albus said moodily.

The till had been amazing for about two minutes on his first day. It was bang in the middle of the shop, so you had an amazing view of everything and everyone: the no-burn fireworks that constantly bounded around the shop, whizzing and spinning and doing all sorts of mad acrobatics, the eager little crowds that gathered whenever someone dared to sample Shield Hats or Nosebleed Nougat or a completely new product, the overly excitable kids, the grown wizards who marvelled at the cleverness of his uncles’ inventions... Watching the hustle and bustle from that particular spot was wonderful.

But working at the till meant dealing with customers, and that was less wonderful.

After he’d finished ringing up a bloke who’d bought an interesting amount of Patented Daydreams, Albus let his gaze wander. Every now and then he’d catch glimpses Rose’s bushy brown hair and magenta robes through the gaps in the shelves—she took care of restocking because she claimed it was more tiring, but Albus knew it was actually because she didn't have the patience to interact with customers. Not that he did, either, but he was better at hiding it.

It was exhausting, though. He’d never been much of a talker, and having to keep up a permanently cheerful attitude while talking to people he didn’t know at all felt stifling. Some of them were okay, but others snapped at him or goggled at his green eyes and messy dark hair before their eyes darted to the name tag that read ‘Albus’, and he felt like he was eleven years old again, the sole focus of Hogwarts gossip as students stared and whispered whenever they saw him. His first year had been his worst by far, and he didn’t know what he would have done if Rose hadn’t stubbornly stuck by his side even after he’d been Sorted into Slytherin.

Working at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes felt a little bit like that. He was too exposed to be invisible here. He was surrounded by people, and yet he somehow managed to feel very lonely.

Tugging at the sleeves of his robes, he tried to think happy thoughts, like the fact that he was making two galleons an hour. He’d been saving up, and by the end of the week he’d have raised enough to afford tickets for him and Lily to see the Fwoopers’ concert in Hogsmeade, and he’d have enough left over for a new official Brazilian National Quidditch team t-shirt, since his current one was falling apart. He knew his parents would give him the money if he asked for it, but it wouldn’t be the same. There was something very satisfying about knowing this was a salary he was earning on his own, without their help. 

He passed the time by doodling. It was a habit he’d picked up during endless History of Magic lessons and he wasn’t very good at it, but at least it made him feel calm, in control. It made his tension melt away and his anxiety quiet down for a little while, and it was pretty much the only thing that made his job bearable. He was only supposed to use his notebook to write down customers’ addresses and that sort of thing, but most of its pages were filled with random sketches, only a few of which were finished. The one that lay before him now was of a dragon that might have been a Swedish Shortsnout, but he’d messed up the horns, so he was just making up a new breed of dragon as he went.

The bell rang for the billionth time in that single hour, the sound of it adding to his mild headache. He glanced up, bracing himself for yet another weirdo, or another mother of ten who’d march up to the till and yell at him for something he had no control over, or a loud group of foreign wizards who only spoke Russian.

However, the boy who walked in was none of those things.

Albus’ first thought was that he was beautiful. He was tall and rather lanky, with a pointed chin andsharp cheekbones that gave him an aristocratic appearance. His hair, much like the rest of him, was very pale, a shock of silver-blond locks that were parted neatly to one side and curled very slightly at the tips. Most shocking of all, however, were his eyes: bright and warm, and a striking colour that could’ve been blue or grey. He was wearing expensive-looking plum robes that looked taylor-made, and he clearly stood out among the crowd, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. 

As Albus watched, he turned slowly on the spot, his lips parted as he took in the explosion of colour and sound that was Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes: things that spun and bounced and shot out sparks in all the colours of the rainbow, Christmas trees made out of towers of sweets with bright wrappers that glittered temptingly, miles and miles of sparkling tinsel, furry little creatures that squeaked and rolled around in their cages... His uncles had gone all out now that the holidays were approaching. Everything was so bright and loud that it gave Albus a headache, but the boy seemed to like it. There was a smile on his lips as he scanned his surroundings, his eyes alight with curiosity and wonder.

His misery forgotten, Albus sneaked glances him as he moved about the shop, peering inquisitively at every single product. He was all limbs, but he somehow managed to look graceful.

He was staring, and he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop.

And suddenly the boy turned his head and his gaze slid over to Albus’, startling him. Albus smiled on instinct and immediately wanted to kick himself for it. The boy seemed taken aback. He glanced behind him, as if he thought Albus was smiling at someone else, but of course there was no one. He opened his mouth as if he were going to speak, then seemed to think better of it and settled for hesitantly smiling back. It was a shy gesture, but a very sweet one, and as Albus’ heart skipped a beat he knew he was in trouble. Very deep trouble.

Merlin, he was cute, he thought dazedly.

“Excuse me,” a woman's voice snapped.

Albus jumped, tearing his gaze away from the boy so he could turn to a formidable-looking witch who'd somehow snuck up on him. She towered over him, her feathery hat making her seem taller and even more intimidating. Looking at Albus like he was something nasty that had stuck to the bottom of her shoe, she set something purple and fluffy down on the counter. A Pygmy Puff.

“Er—hi.” He winced at how unprofessional that sounded. “How can I help you?” he amended, giving her his best smile as he cringed inwardly.

“I want to buy a Pygmy Puff.” Her words were as harsh as her tone, without any hint whatsoever of politeness.

Albus had to hold back a sigh, partly because of her attitude and partly because Pygmy Puff adoption was a pain. “Alright, if you could just wait a moment while I get the paperwork—”

“I don’t want _this_ Pygmy Puff,” the woman interrupted. “I want to see the other ones.”

Albus paused, his brow furrowing. “The… other ones?” he asked carefully.

“Yes, the other ones. This one is purple, but I don’t like purple.”

_‘Why did you take it out of the cage, then?’_ Albus thought in annoyance. Customers insisted on touching things and moving them about even though they had no intention to buy them, and it drove the workers mad.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said, not feeling sorry at all, “but these are the only colours available, madam. Pygmy Puffs aren’t like regular Puffskeins, they—”

“But I want a _blue_ one.”

“There isn’t a blue one.” He tried to sound as if he didn’t think the witch was completely thick. It was tricky. “If you buy this one then maybe you could use a Colour-Changing Charm—”

“I’m not going to do _that_ ,” the woman said indignantly.

Albus raised his eyes to the ceiling for a brief second, praying for one of his uncles to swoop in or for a Wildfire Whiz-bang box to explode or _something_. He was familiar with the stubborn twist of that woman’s mouth, and he knew she’d keep this conversation going in circles for as long as she could. Merlin’s sodding beard.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, wondering why he kept apologising for something that was clearly not his fault, “but there are pink Pygmy Puffs and purple ones. That’s it. I can’t give you a blue one because _it doesn’t exist_.” He spoke slowly, as if he were explaining this to a child.

“Well, do something about it!” the woman said imperiously.

“But I can’t—”

“No ‘buts’. I'm a customer, I asked for this, you have to give it to me. That’s why you work here, isn’t it?”

Albus just stared at her, eyebrows raised incredulously. When he realised the woman was being completely serious, he said, already regretting the words as they poured out, “Sure, I’ll just pop into the back, create a new breed of Pygmy Puff just for you, and bring one back. Would you prefer sky blue or cobalt?”

For a second he thought he was going to get hexed. The woman’s indignation seemed to have inflated her like a balloon, and the scarlet splotches on her cheeks probably matched Albus’ burning, mortified blush. He looked down, fiddling with his sleeves and swearing internally as he began to stutter an apology, but the witch didn’t want to hear it; with an indignant squawk and a string of threats about how she was going to come back and get him fired, she stormed off. 

Albus groaned and buried his face in his folded arms, sagging completely against the till. The Pygmy Puff gave a delighted squeak and rolled over to him, bumping against his elbow. He didn’t have the energy to shake it off.

He heard approaching footsteps, and someone patted him on the back. “Nice one, Al.” He recognised his cousin’s voice, as well as the amusement in it.

“Shut up, Rose,” he said, his voice muffled.

Rose tutted. “I’m only joking, you know. That woman was clearly being an idiot—Dad and Uncle George will probably give you a high-five when they find out, that’s it. You’ll live.”

“Not if she comes back and curses my eyebrows off.”

He heard a snort, and Rose took off his Santa hat for a moment so she could ruffle his hair lightly before picking up the Pygmy Puff, which let out a disappointed squeak, and walking away to put it back in its cage.

Albus would have loved to stay like that forever, eyes closed as he thought mournfully about how much his life sucked and how badly he wanted to have this Potioneers’ Licence _now_ instead of having to wait almost a year to sit his exam, but he couldn’t. With a heavy sigh, he straightened up and reached for his Santa hat again to straighten it, his gaze falling on the DADA section.

The same boy from before was still standing there, still looking lovely and slightly out of place. He was watching him. Albus braced himself, expecting to find disapproval or even dislike in those eyes since he’d just made himself look like a complete arse, but the boy was… smiling? Again? With a hint of sympathy this time, as if he was on Albus’ side. That lifted his spirits a bit. Now it was his turn to smile back, and they simply grinned at each other like that for a few moments, and it didn’t feel awkward at all. He felt the impulse to say something, anything, and he thought he saw the boy take a step forward, closer, as if he planned on coming over to talk, and maybe they—

But then an exceptionally giggly teenage girl and her friends blocked his view by dropping a stack of Crush Blush boxes on the counter, and he lost his chance. By the time he’d dealt with all of them, doing his best to be pleasant despite their shrill laughter and attempts at flirting, the boy was gone.

He felt a wave of disappointment. It had been nice while it lasted, he supposed.

Sighing again, he picked up his pen and kept drawing.

 

* * *

 

To his surprise, the boy came back the next day. And the day after that… and the day after that.

And suddenly working at the till and having a full view of the shop wasn’t so bad anymore.

He was always punctual. Every day at exactly five past twelve, Albus spotted that flash of silver-blond hair out of the corner of his eye and promptly forgot about everything else. For a few glorious minutes, every little thing that frustrated him about his job faded into the background.

It had been almost a week since the first time he’d seen him, and his heart had gone from doing weird little skips to full-blown somersaults whenever the boy walked into the shop, and especially when he smiled at him. Small smiles, secret smiles, _sweet_ smiles. Few and far between, only when their gazes met by chance, and usually accompanied by a soft blush before they both looked away. Sometimes Albus was the one who looked first, and sometimes it was the boy, but no matter who started it the result was always the same. Albus wasn’t sure what they meant. Well, he knew what he _wanted_ them to mean, but that was just wishful thinking—a boy like that wouldn’t be interested in boring, ordinary, painfully average Albus Potter. But still, those moments were nice. A bright spot in his dull, repetitive mornings. Something he found himself looking forward to.

He kept drawing, the pages of his notebook now filled not only with dragons, but also tentative and often crossed out sketches of that lovely boy. He could never get his face exactly right—he wasn’t good enough at this, and there was always something missing, some kind of spark that he couldn’t capture and made the whole thing feel lifeless. It frustrated him to no end.

He told himself he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about the boy that had caught his attention and wouldn’t let go. Maybe it was the way the way he stood out with his silvery hair and plum-coloured robes, or the way he seemed so purely delighted by everything he laid eyes on, or the way he had silently mouthed words to himself as he read the back of a box of Puking Pastilles and adorably scrunched up his nose when he realised what they were. He strolled down the aisles, marvelling at the colourful chaos of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes while Albus sneaked glances at him whenever he got the chance. Without meaning to, Albus found himself as charmed by him as he was by the shop.

Part of him wanted to do something about it. Talk to him, maybe. That would be easy, wouldn’t it? Walk up to him, smile, ask his name, where he was from (because he didn’t look older than Albus, and he’d certainly never seen him at Hogwarts), whether he needed someone to show him around the shop or Diagon Alley or wherever. But he didn’t know how. He’d never chatted anyone up at school—he’d never really felt the need to, actually. He’d never liked anyone enough to want to try.

And now there he was, mooning over a stranger that he’d never even heard speak.

He didn’t even know the boy’s _name_ , for Merlin’s sake. All he knew about him was that he was beautiful, that he was curious, and that he was particularly fascinated by the Muggle and sweets sections of the shop, which happened to be very visible from the till—it was a small miracle, but one that Albus was grateful for. He also seemed to be quite enamoured with the Pygmy Puffs, which were starting to recognise him and would rush to the front of their cage, squeaking joyfully, whenever he was near. He was utterly delighted by them, and the way his face lit up when he saw them gave Albus heart palpitations.

And that was it. 

And it was enough for Albus to lose his head whenever he saw him.

Every day he told himself that _this_ would be the day. And then he talked himself out of it or found an excuse or just stood there like a sodding coward, wishing that some of those reckless Gryffindor genes had been passed on to him as well as his siblings.

‘Tomorrow,’ he told himself on Wednesday.

‘Definitely tomorrow,’ he swore on Thursday.

‘Or maybe never?’ he amended on Friday.

He’d been determined to at least get the boy’s name that morning, but as soon as he’d walked through the door Albus’ resolve had evaporated. He’d come in earlier than usual, and he was wearing those elegant plum robes again, and he had a small ink smudge on his cheek, and he was too beautiful, and Albus was too gay, and there was no way he could just go up to him and _talk_. It was easier to let the counter stand between them so he could avoid problems, keep doodling, and occasionally shoot glances at him. That was fine. That was _safe_.

“Albus,” Rose said in a singsong voice, startling him out of his thoughts. “You’re staring again.”

“No, I’m not,” he said quickly, straightening up and tugging at the sleeves of his robes. Rose just raised her eyebrows in disbelief, so he rolled his eyes at her. “Don’t you have a job you should be doing?”

“Don’t _you_?” she shot back immediately. “Because I don’t think your job entails staring at custo—”

“The WonderWitch section’s running out of Flirting Fancies. Bye.”

“Maybe you should try one, that way you’d pluck up the courage to talk to Blondie instead of staring and sighing dreamily while you should be working,” Rose countered sweetly.

He gave her his best dry, unimpressed look. It just made her snort and give him her signature superior smirk. Again.

Rose had been shooting him those smug little looks every now and then for the past two days, and it was driving him mad. She’d always done this, ever since they were kids and she knew something that he didn’t, except this time Albus _did_ know and he wished she’d let him pine in peace. She could be extraordinarily thick where crushes and that sort of thing were concerned, but not this time. Of course not.

“If you don’t want me to tease, you could try to be a bit less obvious, you know,” Rose said sweetly.

“And you could try to mind your own business, maybe?” Albus suggested.

“Fat chance, this is the only entertaining thing about work.” She threw Albus an appraising look. He looked down at the till, playing absentmindedly with his pen and wishing she’d leave. “He’s quite nice, you know. Very polite.”

Albus’ head snapped up. “You’ve _talked_ to him?” he asked disbelievingly. He felt an anxious twist in his gut, and something cold and unpleasant seemed to settle down there. It could’ve been insecurity or jealousy. Or both.

Rose snorted. “Stop imagining rubbish, will you? He just stands in the middle of the aisle most of the time, so I keep telling him to get out of the way and he gets really flustered, that’s it. I think he bowed to me once? So I can understand the appeal. He’s reasonably cute.”

“Oh.” Flustered? Did that mean he fancied Rose? That would make sense. Boys _liked_ Rose despite her ‘go away, I’m gay’ vibes. She was clever, and really funny when she let her guard down, and she had this air of unshakeable confidence that sort of drew you in. She was nothing like Albus—she was the opposite, actually. So if she’d caught the boy’s eye…

A sharp elbow dug into his side, and he was unceremoniously shoved away from his spot behind the counter. He opened his mouth to protest and ask Rose what the hell she was doing, but she beat him to it. 

“Come on, I’ll cover for you,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling.

“You what?”

“You’re doing restocking today,” she announced, “and by ‘restocking’ I mean you’re asking that boy out so you’ll both stop making eyes at each other.”

“No one is making eyes—” Albus began weakly.

“Right, right,” Rose said, waving her hand impatiently. “Let’s skip the part where we argue and I win. The sweets section just _happens_ to need restocking as well,” she threw a pointed look at the shelves next to where the boy currently was, “so you’d better get a move on.”

“Rose,” Albus said pleadingly. She couldn’t be serious. “ _Rosie_.”

It didn’t soften her in the slightest. “Think of it as a favour. It’s for your own good,” she said primly. “You’ll thank me for it someday.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this after _you_ pined after _your_ girlfriend for—“

“That,” Rose said with dignity, “is irrelevant.”

“Is it? Because I’m the one who had to put up with your mood swings and mooning over Laura, and—”

She shoved him. “Move it, _Wotter_.”

He squared his shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that he was just a couple of inches taller than his cousin. “No.”

“Albus Severus Potter, you are not working in this shop again until you’ve talked to your Romeo over there—“

“He’s not my _anything_ —”

“—and you’d better get a move on because otherwise I’m telling James and Lily.”

Albus gaped at her, horrified. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” she challenged. Telling Rose she couldn’t do something practically guaranteed she’d do it, Albus thought in dismay. “Come on, you’re wasting time. And what do you have to lose, anyway? Go up to him, introduce yourself, tell him you think he’s got a fantastic arse—”

Now it was his turn to shove her. “ _Rose_!” he hissed, mortified. He chanced a quick glance at the boy, but thankfully he was too far away to hear.

“As if you haven’t looked,” she said shrewdly. “So, off you go. Chop chop.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“Bye.”

Albus opened his mouth, ready to keep arguing, but the glint in Rose’s eye made him deflate like a balloon. He wasn’t going to win this. Years of experience and childhood arguments had taught him that no one could out-stubborn Rose, not even her mum. With a scowl, and thinking dark thoughts about his dictator of a cousin, he grabbed the boxes of Singing Sugarplums ( _‘Dazzle and delight with your dulcet tones!’_ ) that Rose had been carrying and made his way over to the third aisle on the right, which was empty save for… well, _him_.

If Albus wasn’t such a pathetic mess, he’d make the most of this. That was what Rose would do. She’d march up to the boy, start talking, and in less than five minutes they’d be best friends, because that was how Rose did things. If she wanted something, she went for it. She took chances while Albus lagged behind, reflecting on every single way things could go wrong. Sometimes he somehow made himself stop giving a fuck and did things on impulse, but he didn’t really do it consciously—it just sort of happened.

It sure as hell wasn’t going to happen now.

The boy didn’t seem to have noticed him; he was sitting on his haunches now so that he was at eye level with the lower shelves, which housed boxes of Metamorph Moondrops ( _‘Make your hair match your mood!'_ ). He somehow managed to make his awkward posture look graceful.

Curiosity made Albus want to keep glancing at him, but he couldn’t give Rose the satisfaction—she’d crow over it for days. Instead, he deliberately kept facing forward as he shoved boxes of Singing Sugarplums into the empty spaces in the shelf. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could leave and go back to the safety of the till, where everything was repetitive and simple and there was no chance of him looking like an idiot because he didn’t know how to talk to a gorgeous stranger.

Every step took him closer to the boy, who remained oblivious to his presence until Albus was literally standing half a foot away. He finally glanced at Albus’ robes absentmindedly, but then his gaze flickered upwards and he met Albus’ eyes. They both froze.

And then the boy abruptly stood up, startling Albus, who jumped back. His last box of Singing Sugarplums slipped from his hands and fell to the floor with a crash, sending the sweets flying. He was vaguely aware that he should pick them up, but his idiot brain could only focus on the boy.

He was _there_. Right there, in front of him, looking right at him. He was even more beautiful up close. Albus was startled to find that his eyes weren’t blue, but a shade of grey that reminded him of storm clouds. They were very wide, and his lips were parted, and Albus hadn’t really noticed them until then, but they were pink and soft and so _close_ , and the way the boy’s hair fell in front of his eyes made him want to reach up and brush it off, and he felt his breath catch, and—

And he’d forgotten how words worked.

They just stared at each other for a few seconds, Albus struggling to remember how to breathe, and then—

“ _Désolé_!” the boy squeaked out, taking a step back and looking stricken.

Albus stared, sure he hadn’t heard correctly. Or maybe he’d been so distracted by him that he’d forgotten what English sounded like. “What?”

The boy frowned, and then he clapped both hands to his mouth, his cheeks reddening. “No, I… I was…” he said, his voice slightly muffled. “I’m sorry.” Pressing his lips firmly together and looking absolutely mortified, he ducked down and began to gather the fallen sugarplums, which were scattered across the wooden floor.

Albus needed a second to gather his thoughts, but he didn’t _have_ a second, and he couldn’t just stand there looking like an idiot.

“Wait!” he said hurriedly, picking up the fallen box and fumbling for his wand—Merlin, he hated those pockets, they were so bloody _narrow_. “It’ll be faster with magic. Let’s just— _Accio_!” All of the sweets on the floor zoomed into the box once again, but he only counted a dozen or so. He was missing some.

“Ah,” the boy said, his cheeks now the same shade as Albus’ robes. He’d been kneeling, so he slowly straightened up. “ _Ouais_. Eh—yes. Sorry.” Looking extremely flustered, he dug through his pockets and produced a handsome pear wand that looked every bit as elegant as he did. “ _Accio_!” 

The remaining sugarplums, some of which had rolled under the shelves, flew up to the boy’s waiting hands. He held them out to Albus, looking determinedly down at the floor, still blushing.

Albus stared again. The spell was the same, and so was the wand movement, but the way the boy had said it had been strange. The ‘o’ had sounded weird, and something about the way he spoke in general was distinctly… not English. It sounded a bit familiar. French, maybe? Yes, that made sense. The boy had to be French. 

Albus knew exactly _five_ French words.

He took the marbles mutely, deliberately not thinking about how he was touching the boy’s hand, and busied himself putting them back into the box, trying to hold back a wave of frustration and disappointment. Days of thinking about the boy, pondering what he’d say if he plucked up the courage… for _this_. He’d made himself look like an idiot in less that ten seconds, and this whole thing had been doomed from the start because how on _earth_ was he supposed to have a proper conversation with this boy if he couldn’t speak any bloody French? He should’ve just stayed in the till with his notebook.

He heard the boy take a breath, as if he were going to speak, but as soon as Albus locked eyes with him he seemed to deflate. Maybe he couldn’t find the words he needed (in English, at least). He looked guilty and uncomfortable, and that made _Albus_ feel guilty and uncomfortable, and he found himself wishing fervently that the earth would just open up and swallow him.

Could this have gone worse? He doubted it.

He shut the box and tried to scrounge up one of the few French words he knew. “Er— _merci_ ,” he mumbled finally, shooting the boy a quick, awkward smile. 

And not wanting to make the poor boy more uncomfortable than he already was, he walked away, not bothering to put the box in its place.

 

* * *

 

He spent the whole weekend beating himself up over it, to the point that he was so distracted he messed up the Elixir to Induce Euphoria he’d been brewing to practice and had to start it over from scratch, which put him in an even worse mood. His parents noticed, of course, but they knew him well enough not to pry, though Harry had clearly been itching to do so. He hated it when his children were upset about something and he couldn’t do anything about it.

As Albus pulled on his uniform the following Monday in the back room of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, already dreading the increased madness of the Christmas rush now that it was officially December, he received an unexpected visitor.

“Ah, Albus, my favourite Potter. Just who I wanted to see.”

Albus looked up, smiling at the tall, red-haired man who was strolling towards him, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his own magenta robes. “Hey, Uncle Ron. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s brilliant.” Ron stopped at his side and clapped him on the shoulder. “How’s work? Terrible, I suppose. I worked at the till for a month and it was bloody awful. George talked me into it, said it was a ‘character-building rite of passage’.” He pulled a face. “Git.”

Albus’ lips twitched. “It’s okay. Most of the time.”

“You’re allowed to complain, mate, Merlin knows I did.” Ron clapped him on the shoulder again, and Albus tried not to wince. “Anyway, I’m here to ask a favour. See, I’ve been talking to Rosie and she says you’ve been doing a cracking job, which is brilliant, and that maybe we could give you a little promotion? Just for today.”

Albus frowned. “A promotion?”

Ron nodded. “George and I are off to the Hogsmeade shop to tidy up a bit before the Hogwarts kids come down next weekend, but there are Snackboxes that need brewing here. You up for it? Just this once.”

“Yes!” Albus said immediately, excitement bubbling up in him. “What do you need? Rose said we’re running out of nougat…”

“Nougat, pastilles, Ton-Tongue Toffee…” Ron counted them off with his fingers. “And some Merrymaking Mélange too, it’s been a real hit. But before you get busy with that, do us a favour and pop into Tincture and Sprigs to fetch some ingredients, yeah? You’ll need them. And we want to try out some new stuff this week, but we’re running out of just about everything. I’d send Rose as usual, but you know what she’s like, she reckons she’s meant for bigger and better things now.” He rolled his eyes fondly. “I’ve left a list stuck to the blackboard. Oh, and…” He dug into his pockets and handed Albus a small pouch that was heavy with gold. “Pay with this, there’s more than enough. The shop owner’s a bitter old prat, but Rosie says his new assistant’s okay, so you should be fine. Good luck, mate.” He ruffled Albus’ hair, which Albus endured with a grimace, and left to talk to Verity.

Albus’ eyes fell on the ingredient list, and he felt a smile tug at his lips. Potioning by himself, working in the back room, where it was cool and quiet and he could brew in peace… It was exactly what he wanted. It was the _only_ thing that he wanted. Ever since he’d admitted to himself that Potions wasn’t just a subject he liked, but something that he was genuinely good at, he’d been set on becoming a Potioneer, and he was slowly inching closer to his goal. His uncles couldn’t hire him as a brewer because he had no licence yet, but he could still watch Uncle George potion away and talk to him about ingredient combination and substitution. It wasn’t as good as actually working on the potions himself and dealing with that kind of pressure, but he’d take what he could get for now.

Today, however, he’d _finally_ get a small taste of what his future as a Potioneer would be like, and he wanted to make the most of it. Just thinking about it made his heart leap.

A few minutes later, the ingredient list tucked safely into his notebook, Albus left the shop. December had brought some proper winter weather with it, and the cold wind hit him like a slap to the face when he stepped out onto Diagon Alley. It was slightly less full than Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, so he managed to weave through the crowds without too much trouble. Some people turned to look as he walked past, either because of the unusual colour of his robes or because of his annoying resemblance to his father. He tried to keep his head down.

Tincture and Sprigs was located close to Gringotts, in the narrow side street where you could find the most expensive shops in Diagon Alley, like Twilfitt and Tattings and those tiny little cafés where a cup of tea cost more than what Albus earned in an hour. He’d never set foot in there; he always did his shopping in the apothecary down the street, the one that was in front of Flourish and Blotts. It was old and a bit grimy, but the quality of the ingredients was good and the owners were keen to help out Hogwarts graduates who wanted to pass their T.A.P.P.

Tincture and Sprigs, on the other hand, was _fancy_ , all elegant lavender walls and expensive mahogany furniture. Albus was nowhere near posh enough to shop there, something which he was painfully aware of as he walked in with his Wheezes robes and overly messy hair. A bell jingled out a cheerful little tune as the door closed behind him, but no one came to greet him and there was no one behind the counter. He looked around, his awkwardness increasing with every passing second. Gleaming silver cauldrons lined the walls, bubbling quietly, the fumes floating upwards in graceful spirals. He recognised most of them as healing potions, though he caught a whiff of Amortentia (rain, coffee, apple pie, and something vanilla-ish) and spotted the shade of gold and leaping droplets that could only belong to Felix Felicis. He approached that cauldron curiously, interested in seeing it up close, wondering if he would ever own a shop like this and sell all these potions himself—

“Do not _touch_ , boy,” someone snapped, almost giving him a heart attack. He whipped his head around to face a wizened old man who seemed to have Apparated behind the counter. He was looking at him suspiciously, his clear blue eyes narrowed. Everything from his perfectly combed hair to his immaculate purple robes was intimidating and somehow stern, and Albus was immediately reminded of Professor McGonagall.

The man looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on Albus’ bright magenta robes and black Converse; he didn’t seem impressed. Albus pulled his sleeves down self-consciously. Thank Merlin he’d remembered to take off his Santa hat before he’d left the shop, at least.

“Um.” He cleared his throat. “Hello, I was—”

“ _Malfoy_!” the man barked suddenly, making him jump again.

“ _Oui, Monsieur Armand_?” a voice called from the back, muffled by the thick velvet curtains that separated it from the rest of the shop.

“ _Viens t’occuper du client, je ne veux pas perdre mon temps_.”

“ _Bien sûr, Monsieur Armand_!”

Before Albus could even begin to figure out what that was about, the curtain was shoved aside and he felt his heart stop.

Of course. _Of course_.

The boy hadn’t noticed him, but there he was, all silver-haired and graceful and gorgeous. He was wearing gloves, and there was something green smudged on his cheek and the front of his plum-coloured robes. Fancy, practical robes that he wore every day. A _uniform_. Because he worked in Tincture and Sprigs.

‘Rosie says his new assistant’s okay,’ Uncle Ron had said.

Rose had _known_. He could picture her smug smirk as she suggested Albus’ little promotion, fully aware of where it would lead him and who he’d find there.

He was _so_ telling Hugo about this. He’d look at Rose with those big blue eyes of his and tell her off for being a nosy busybody, and there was nothing she hated more than her little brother being disappointed in her.

The old wizard and the boy were talking to each other and completely ignoring his existence, which was fine. Very fine. Excellent, even. He considered making a run for it.

“ _Et donc ‘il’ est_ …” the boy was saying as he pulled off his gloves, his brow slightly furrowed.

“ _Un employé de la boutique de_ farces,” the wizard said, practically spitting out the last word.

“ _De la boutique de_ …?” And then the boy looked over the man’s shoulder, his gaze finally meeting Albus’, and his eyes went very wide. “Oh.”

Albus wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor.

“ _Occupe-toi de lui_ rapidement,” the wizard grunted, shoving the curtain aside and disappearing from view without another word.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Albus couldn’t make himself meet the boy’s eyes. What was he thinking? He was obviously surprised to see Albus there. Was that good or bad? Probably bad. Albus himself didn’t know how he felt. He was mostly mortified, especially as he remembered how he’d rudely walked away the previous day, but part of him was… glad.

He noticed a silver name tag pinned to the boy’s plum-coloured robes. It read ‘Malfoy’, and Albus’ heart plummeted as he realised he had no idea how to pronounce that, none at all. French was weird. Was that a first name? A surname?

The silence was stretching on, making him antsy. He had to say something. Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he finally met the boy’s gaze, his resolve stumbling when he once again realised how beautiful and grey they were. “Um… _bonjour_?” he ventured, his throat suddenly feeling very dry.

There was a brief pause.

“ _Est-ce que tu parles français_?” the boy asked him, perplexed.

Albus had understood exactly one word, given that his French was shit—he could barely speak English properly, let alone some foreign language that made you sound like you were choking on air. Part of him wanted to learn, since the world’s most important books on Alchemy and Potions had originally been written in French and relying on translations could end badly, but it had never worked out. Teddy and Victoire had offered to teach him—and so had Dominique, even though her idea of a French lesson involved swear words rather than stuff like grammar—but he’d turned them down. He felt like an idiot every time he tried to speak it, fully aware that he was getting it all wrong, and that just discouraged him further. 

And now there he was, looking like an idiot. Again.

“Er—What?” he asked blankly.

“Oh! I thought that you—well, never mind. Welcome to Tincture and Sprigs, what can I help you with?” The boy said all of this very quickly, giving him a bright smile at the end. 

Albus stared, his mind reeling by how quickly he’d changed track. Malfoy’s English accent was melodious and slightly posh, and though it did have some traces of French, it was nowhere near as bad as Aunt Fleur’s. And he spoke _well_ , with ease and without hesitation. If it hadn’t been for the slight French-ness, Albus would have thought Malfoy was English, like him.

He had no idea what was going on, he’d been so sure that this was all over after what had happened at the joke shop… Who _was_ this boy?

“You speak _English_?” he blurted.

Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “Um, yes?” he said, sounding politely bewildered. 

“But I—you—you’re French?” He hadn’t meant it to sound like a question.

“Oh.” Malfoy’s eyes went wide. “ _Oh_ , you thought… Right. Of course. Well, I suppose I am French. Sort of.” There was a beat of silence where he seemed to consider saying something else, but the words rushed out of him before he’d thought it through, as if he couldn’t help himself. “My dad is French, but Mum is English and I _was_ born in England, but we’ve lived in France since I was little, so that’s why I… you know. I mean, I _can_ speak English, and reasonably well, I think, but I’m not used to it, so I’m really sorry if I say anything that sounds strange or makes no sense, it’s just that sometimes all these languages get mixed up in my head and—sorry, I’m rambling, you probably don’t want to hear this.” He smiled sheepishly. “Monsieur Armand says I talk too much and he’s right, of course. Sorry. Again.”

Albus blinked. “I… I don’t mind.” He could barely keep up with all of that enthusiasm and wasn’t understanding half of it, but it didn’t bother him at all. “It’s fine.”

So he’d been wrong—Malfoy was only... half French? Was that it? Well, what mattered was that he spoke English, and he was talking to Albus, and Albus was talking right back, and nothing mortifying had happened yet, and it was _great_. He felt a surge of hope.

Malfoy looked puzzled by Albus’ reply for a second, but then he gave Albus a grateful, glowing little smile as he bounced on the balls of his feet, as if Albus had said something unexpected and wonderful. Albus looked away, his cheeks warm. He resisted to urge to pull at his sleeves again—it was a stupid habit, and he knew it made his anxiety way too obvious.

“So…” Malfoy began expectantly after a few seconds of silence. “Can I help you?”

Albus looked up and nodded, trying to compose himself. “Yeah. I need some ingredients.” _For Merlin’s sake, why_ else _would you be in this shop, Albus?_ “My uncle sent me. He—er—runs Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. The joke shop down the road,” he added before realising how unnecessary it was as Malfoy’s cheeks went pink.

“Um. Yes, I know. Obviously,” he said hesitantly. They shared a slightly awkward look, once again remembering what had happened the last time he’d been there, but Malfoy seemed determined to move on from that. “That shop has a very complicated name, doesn’t it?” he said abruptly, his eyes bright.

“Er—does it?”

Malfoy nodded solemnly. “Yes. Weasley’s Weez—no, that’s not right. See? I can’t pronounce it properly unless I say it very, very slowly.” He gave a self-conscious little laugh that made Albus smile, and then he straightened up, as if he were trying to look extra professional. “Anyway, back to these ingredients. What do you need, exactly?”

“Right. Er—I’ve got a list.” Albus hastened to set his notebook on the counter and opened it to the blank page where he’d tucked in the list, smoothing the wrinkles. Malfoy leaned forward and rested his chin on one hand as he read it, occasionally moving his lips as if he were mouthing some of the words to himself.

Albus tried not to stare at them.

He failed.

After a few moments Malfoy grabbed the list and began to summon various flasks, bottles and jars with a flick of his wand, once again pronouncing the spell in a slightly odd way. At one point he began to count a pile of porcupine quills, muttering under his breath in rapid French. As Albus watched, he weighed ingredients and packaged them with quiet efficiency, but the silence didn’t last long. Malfoy didn’t seem to like it much.

“I know these aren’t for personal use and that your company buys them all the time,” he said as he moved about the room, “but I still have to warn you about the pearl dust. You have to store it somewhere cool and be very careful when you add it to your potion, otherwise—”

“Otherwise it’ll make it explode,” Albus completed for him. “Especially if we mix it with moondew, which we do. And we can’t ever mix it with Tincture of Demiguise because we’ll set fire to everything. My Uncle George tried that out once.”

“But why would anyone want to mix…” Malfoy began, utterly baffled. He’d frozen halfway through weighing some lionfish spine “I mean, it’s a very dangerous combination, surely a professional Potioneer would know…?”

Albus shrugged. “You can’t invent things if you don’t try out everything, it’s the only way to know what works and what doesn’t. And it’s what makes potioning _fun_ —if we just repeated the same recipes over and over without experimenting we’d never discover anything interesting or useful.” He realised he was being a little too fervent, and Malfoy was still staring at him with wide eyes, looking slightly scandalised, so he hastened to add, “Uncle George knew what he was doing, so he was fine. He thought it was brilliant, actually. He’s going to try to do something with that and our fireworks.”

“That’s… creative. Dangerous, but creative. And you seem to know a lot about—” Malfoy paused again, except this time his gaze was fixed on Albus’ notebook. On a page that _wasn’t_ the blank one he’d opened it on.

Albus almost lunged for it, his heart thundering in his chest, feeling like he might faint or have a heart attack—all of that moving about had rustled the pages. But then he blinked, and he realised that the page wasn’t showing any of his incriminating sketches of Malfoy’s ridiculously beautiful face. It was the one with that weird dragon he’d made up the other day.

Malfoy lit up like a star. “Is that a _dragon_?” he gasped in delight, leaning in so much that his nose was almost pressed up against the paper.

“Um,” Albus said, still feeling weak in the knees, “yeah.”

“I don’t recognise the breed,” Malfoy said, tilting his head to the side as if looking at the dragon from another angle would help. His hair fell into his eyes, and Albus’ hands itched to brush it back.

“I made it up.” He felt like such an idiot.

“Oh.” To his surprise, Malfoy let out a laugh, and it was quite possibly the loveliest sound he’d ever heard. His heart gave a leap when Malfoy’s eyes met his. “That’s incredible! And so _creative_. It looks very real. Are you an artist?”

Albus’ face was tomato red. “Er, no, definitely not. I just doodle when I’m bored.” he mumbled, not knowing where to look. “I’m a Potioneer. Well, I _want_ to be, but I haven’t sat the T.A.P.P. yet, so I just work at the joke shop now. My uncle’s a Potioneer though, he’s helping me study…” He trailed off, realising that Malfoy probably didn’t find this interesting at all.

But he _did_ look interested; he was hanging onto Albus’ every word, his grey eyes bright and curious. “A Potioneer?” he said, smiling. “My father’s a Potioneer—well, sort of, he mostly focuses on Alchemy. He keeps trying to get me interested in the subject, but I want to be a Healer, like my mum.”

“How did you end up working in an apothecary, then?”

“Oh, this is just a part-time job. I’m attending a few classes in St Mungo’s Healing school, but I need something to do in my free time, otherwise I’ll get bored,” Malfoy replied. “It’s good for me, I think. I’m learning a lot of new words because I have no idea what some ingredients are called in English, and Monsieur Armand specialises in Healing potions, so he’s been teaching me a lot about them.”

Albus had no idea how he could enjoy having both classes _and_ a job, especially if he had extra lessons from that rude shop owner, but he tried not to judge him. “Sounds fun,” he offered.

“It is!” Malfoy beamed at him, and it was so dazzling that Albus had to look away again, his heart deciding that this was an excellent time to start doing backflips. He noticed that Malfoy was peering at his notebook again, but to his relief he didn’t turn the page. He didn’t even _touch_ it, as if that cheap old notebook that he’d bought in some random shop in Muggle London was something precious.

“So you like potions and dragons,” Malfoy said, sounding pensive. Why did he sound like he _cared_ about that information? Like he thought it was worth remembering? Albus tried not to let his thoughts run wild, because surely Malfoy was just being friendly, right? Very nice, very friendly, very not-interested in Albus.“And why do—”

“ _Malfoy, je ne te paie pas pour que tu parles avec les clients_ ,” someone barked from behind the closed curtain. It was the shop owner, that ‘Monsieur Armand’.

Malfoy made a face and gave Albus a rueful smile. Albus smiled back on instinct, though he had no idea what the shop owner had just said or how bad it was.

“ _Désolé, Monsieur Armand_!” Malfoy called again, his tone upbeat even as he made another face, which made Albus huff out a laugh this time.

Malfoy went back to gathering the ingredients, now talking—in a slightly quieter tone—about the Catalonian Fireball he’d seen in a reserve with his parents when he was little. Albus tentatively shared a few tidbits about his uncle Charlie and his work with dragons, which Malfoy found fascinating. Conversation flowed easily between them, as if the sugarplum incident had never happened.

It must’ve taken a while to put all of the ingredients together—it looked like George and Ron had bought a third of the shop’s stock—but time flew by for Albus. Too soon, Malfoy had placed a neat pile of packages on the counter.

“That’s twenty-four galleons, six sickles, please.”

Albus carefully dropped the coins onto Malfoy’s waiting hand. His fingers grazed his palm just slightly, but that bit of contact was enough to make the back of his neck feel hot. He could’ve sworn Malfoy’s cheeks had gone slightly pink again as he ducked his head and began to count the money, whispering in French.

It was unfairly adorable.

Not for the first time, Albus wished he was more like James. His brother could be a dork and an idiot at times, but he was confident, and with a wink and a few smooth, clever words he’d have Malfoy swooning at his feet.

But he wasn’t James. He was Albus, and he’d never fancied anyone enough to ask them out, and so he had no idea how to do it and definitely wasn’t going to give it a go now.

“I’ll… see you around?” he asked instead.

“Yes!” Malfoy said immediately. “I go there every day—to the joke shop, I mean. Well, you already know that, obviously. So you’ll see me. And I’ll see you. In a non-creepy way.” He smiled nervously at him.

“Great. So… er… _Au revoir_?” Albus said tentatively, hoping he’d got it right. He had no idea what it meant exactly, just that it was some form of goodbye. His cousin Victoire said it all the time.

Malfoy beamed at him, lighting up in a way that made Albus forget how to breathe again. “ _Oui, au revoir_!” he chirped.

He was in so much trouble.

“Um—yeah.” His cheeks flaming, not really aware of what he was doing, Albus stuffed the packages into his magically enlarged bag and, with one last awkward wave that must’ve looked idiotic and immediately made him want to kick himself, sped out of the shop.

His mind was reeling during the whole way back, and he only snapped out of it when he stepped into the back room of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and Rose immediately appeared at the doorway and swaggered over to him, looking just a tiny bit more smug than on the day she’d been made Prefect. “So,” she said loudly, crossing her arms. “How was Tincture and Sprigs?”

“You’re the worst and I hate you,” Albus informed her, setting his bag down on a table.

“So it went well,” she said triumphantly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re grinning like an idiot,” she pointed out, and there was no way he could deny it, so he ignored her. “Tell me _everything_ ,” she pressed, following him around as he began to put the ingredients in their proper places. “Did you talk? Are you meeting up? Is he—”

“Rose?”

“Yes?”

“Bye,” he said sweetly, just like she’d done on Friday.

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“You do know I’m going to harass you until you spill the beans, right? I orchestrated this, thank you very much, and I am _entitled_ —”

“Yep.” He popped the ‘p’ in that obnoxious way he knew she hated. “But not today.”

After a little more persuading and promises that he wasn’t going to try to ‘weasel out of this’, he managed to make her leave. She was back two minutes later, but only to remind him to leave the door at least half open. She was her usual bossy self, but Albus noticed a hint of relief in her dark eyes, as if she was happy because _he_ was happy. She’d never admit it, though.

Leaning against the nearest table, he puffed up his cheeks and loosed a long breath. _That_ had happened, hadn’t it? It was almost too good to be true. He ran a hand through his hair, smiling to himself. He’d had a full conversation with a boy he fancied, and it had gone well, and he hadn’t messed up once.

He wanted to talk to him again.

And almost as soon as that thought had crossed his mind, he saw a flutter of movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and, through the open door, spotted a flash of green that was moving about the shop.

As he watched, an exquisitely made paper dragon soared over the shelves, gracefully dodging the stacked boxes. He wondered if it was a new product his uncles had created, or perhaps a toy that had flown away. To his surprise, the dragon glided down in the direction of the back room, aiming for where he stood. It circled his head once, then landed neatly on the work table.

Albus poked it with a finger and jumped when it suddenly unfurled, revealing a bit of parchment. There was something written on it in elegant, cursive script.

 

**_Hello!_ **

**_You forgot your fluxweed and a bottle of essence of daisyroot. Should I bring them over, or are you too busy? I’d send them by owl, but I think your shop might be a bit too crowded._ **

**_Scorpius (from Tincture & Sprigs)_ **

 

His heart skipped a beat. 

_Scorpius_. 

That was the boy’s name, then. Scorpius Malfoy. Astronomy had never been Albus’ best subject, but he remembered the long nights he’d spent hunched over his notes, trying to memorise the names of stars and moons and constellations for his O.W.L.s. Scorpius had been one of the few he could be counted on to remember. He could picture it now, with its slightly curved shape. _Scorpius_. Beautiful and bright in the night sky. It suited him.

He picked up the note, his heart now racing. It was hardly a love letter, but still… The paper dragon had been so elaborate. And it was a _dragon_. Different from the one Albus had drawn, but a dragon nonetheless, and those two things had to be connected. How long had it taken Scorpius to make it? _Why_ had he made it? Shops sending notes to each other was pretty common, especially if the staff knew each other, but they tended to use paper aeroplanes. You could see them darting around Diagon Alley, dodging both buildings and people. The fact that Scorpius had used a paper _dragon…_ it meant something. Something new to Albus. Something clearly good and a little bit exciting.

Smiling, he ripped out a page from his notebook, grabbed his pen, and began to write.

 

**Sorry! You can bring them over if it’s not too much trouble. I’ll wait for you by the till. Thank you.**

 

He made a face. That sounded way too formal. After hesitating for a second, he scribbled down something else.

 

**Is this dragon a Welsh Green, by the way? It’s pretty accurate.**

**Albus**

 

He gently folded the note and dropped it onto the green paper, which instantly folded itself into the shape of a dragon once again. It flapped its wings once, as if waking itself up after a nap. Albus watched it, fascinated. It was a sweet kind of magic—he’d never seen anything quite like it.

His heart feeling lighter than it had that morning, he watched the dragon fly away before turning back to his potions.

 

* * *

 

The next day he found another dragon waiting for him on the counter, right beside the pen jar. His early morning grumpiness forgotten, he hurried over but paused before touching it. It was black and slightly bigger than the other one, with a long tail that seemed to end on some kind of spike.

 

**_Good morning!_ **

 

**_I hope this dragon will be better than my Welsh Green That Was Supposed To Be A Romanian Longhorn :)_ **

**_Busy day ahead?_ **

 

**_Scorpius_ **

 

Albus was glad he’d arrived early—the shop was practically empty, so no one would notice his bright red blush or giddy smile. Scorpius had written this because he wanted to, not because he had to. This wasn’t work related at all. He _wanted_ to talk to Albus, maybe almost as much as Albus wanted to talk to him. Warmth bubbled up in him, and he hastened to grab his pen and reply.

 

**Morning!**

 

**It was an excellent Welsh Green even though it wasn’t meant to be :P And this is a Hungarian Horntail, right? Just kidding—I know it’s a Hebridean Black, I can see the ridges on its back. It looks amazing.**

**And yes, Tuesdays are always busy. And so are Wednesdays. And pretty much every single day, really. It never ends. I suppose things are calmer in your shop? I hope your boss didn’t yell at you or anything yesterday, by the way—he didn’t sound too happy. I’m sorry if he did.**

 

**Albus**

 

He watched the paper dragon soar over the shelves and disappear out the front door, and could barely hide his delight when it came back mere minutes later, carrying a new message.

And just like that, this became a routine. One dragon per day, each more elaborate than the last, as if Scorpius were trying to impress him (that was what Albus liked to think, anyway). After the Hebridean Black came a Hungarian Horntail, then a Lithuanian Long-Snout… Whatever charm Scorpius placed on them wore off after a few hours, but Albus kept them anyway, and he had a neat little row of them on his windowsill at home. He also kept all of the notes, but those were stuffed into the drawer of his nightstand, which was a sacred space in every bedroom of the Potter household. No one would go snooping there.

Not that they’d find anything juicy in those notes, anyway. They were full of comments about various odd customers, discussions about potions ingredients, a few teasing remarks, terrible puns that Scorpius seemed to be quite proud of, and a daily ‘fun fact’ with which he started every conversation.

 

**Bonjour _! Did you know that the powdered claw of an Antipodean Opaleye is more effective than that of any other dragon in brain-boosting potions? :)_**

 

**Didn’t know that, but I’ll keep it in mind. Uncle George might find it interesting…**

**Did _you_ know that if you mix moondew with sugar in any kind of potion it’ll make the drinker’s hair change colours? It’s mad.**

 

**_… Do I_ want _to know how you know that?_**

 

**Big family. Loads of cousins, most of them pranksters. You learn something new in every family reunion… and you also learn to keep an eye on your food and drink.**

 

**_Well, now you have to tell me the whole story._ **

 

Scorpius still visited the shop every day, of course, as punctual as always. And there were no more sneaky glances and shy smiles when they got caught; instead, they grinned at each other, mouthing a quick ‘hi’ or waving and smiling whenever they got the chance.

One day, after dealing with an annoyingly curious nine-year-old boy who’d interrogated him about various products for ten whole minutes, Albus sought Scorpius out and pulled a face at him. Scorpius laughed out loud and smiled sympathetically before pulling a face right back at him, and of course Albus returned the gesture, and that silly little game felt like the most natural thing in the world. It made Albus’ heart do all sorts of weird gymnastics, but there was no anxiety or insecurity tied to it now. It felt… easy.

To his relief, on that particular day Scorpius was still in the shop when his break started. He took off his work robes and straightened his blue and green flannel shirt, only half-listening to Rose as she hopped onto his counter, swinging her feet and prattling on about the coffee and muffins it was her turn to buy in Florean Fortescue’s. It didn’t take her long to realise Albus wasn’t paying attention.

“Should I get a banana muffin for French Boy too?” she asked sweetly.

“What?” Albus said absentmindedly, his gaze still on Scorpius.

Rose snorted and slid off the counter, snapping her fingers before his eyes and making him jump. When he glared at her, she waggled her eyebrows, backing away with a wicked grin that promised endless teasing when she got back.

Albus sighed, but he tried not to think too much of it. Even though Rose loved to poke fun at him and was having a grand time with the whole Scorpius situation, she wouldn’t push him too much. Hopefully. 

His heart thumping a little faster at the thought of talking to Scorpius in person again, he picked up that day’s paper dragon—a small copper Peruvian Vipertooth—from the counter and smiled when it took flight and landed on his shoulder, by the collar of his shirt, curling up underneath it as if it wanted to take a nap.

Grabbing his notebook—he wasn’t using it as much nowadays as he was busy writing to Scorpius, but it was still full of incriminating sketches that he wanted to keep hidden—he made his way through the aisles, stopping to leave his robes in the back room before heading for the corner of the WonderWitch section where they kept the Pygmy Puffs. Scorpius was crouched in front of the cage, conversing in lilting French with the creatures, which were piling up on top of each other in their eagerness to get closer to him. It was such a lovely sight that Albus almost didn’t want to interrupt it.

He stopped a couple of feet away. “Hey,” he said awkwardly.

Scorpius jumped about a foot in the air before turning around. He looked stunned when his eyes met Albus’, but his expression quickly morphed into one of absolute delight. “Albus!” he exclaimed, pronouncing his name in that soft French way that immediately made Albus’ knees turn to jelly. “Have you finished work early today?”

“Nah, I just have my break now, so I thought I’d—er—say hi.” He wished he could stuff his hands into his jean pockets, but he was still holding his notebook.

“Oh, hello then,” Scorpius said brightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I like your hat.”

Shit, that stupid Santa hat. It was too easy to forget he was wearing it; he’d almost made it all the way back home without remembering its existence quite a few times. Rose could’ve told him he’d forgotten to take it off, but of course she hadn’t: she must’ve thought it was funny.

He snatched it off his head. “Don’t bother being nice, I know I look ridiculous,” he joked, hoping that his hair didn’t look too disastrous.

“You don’t!” Scorpius protested. “I think it’s cute.”

Was he only referring to the hat or was Albus included in that statement? Could he ask? No, of course he couldn’t. Instead, Albus settled for blushing, mumbling a painfully awkward ‘thanks’ and staring intently down at the sparkly magenta hat.

He should probably say something now, something interesting, but his mind was blank. Writing notes to Scorpius was easy as breathing, but actually _talking_ to him… He didn’t know what to do with himself. Things that he could put on parchment sounded too silly or too daring when he thought about saying them out loud.

He felt the paper dragon shift under the collar of his shirt, and he suddenly felt tempted to take it out of there and present it to him, and maybe ask _why_. Why a dragon? Why write to Albus at all? But it didn't feel like the right time. The paper dragons were special, like an inside joke or secret. It didn’t feel right to bring them up so casually.

Instead, he blurted out, “Don’t you usually leave at half twelve? It’s quarter to one now.”

And he immediately wanted to kick himself because that sounded weird _as fuck_. Was it creepy that he was so aware of Scorpius’ timetable? Maybe. Probably.

Thankfully, Scorpius didn’t seem to mind. “Monsieur Armand had to close early today,” he said, still chipper. “So I can spend as much time as I like here for once, which makes a nice change.”

“Aren’t you bored of the shop already?” Albus asked tentatively. “You probably know it better than I do at this point.”

Scorpius laughed. “Is it possible to get bored of this place?” he said, his eyes bright. “We don’t have a shop like it in Paris, the Place Cachée is too _chique_ for this sort of thing. And I like it, of course, but I think I like Diagon Alley better. The shops are more varied and everything is so vibrant, and then there’s this shop, and everything is so unique and _interesting_ here, and of course there’s you.”

Albus almost dropped his hat and notebook.

“Me?” he managed to squeak out, his heart thundering in his chest.

Scorpius met his gaze evenly. “Yes, you. I know we write to each other, but it’s nicer to talk in person, isn’t it? I wish we could do it more often.” He gave Albus a shy, nervous smile. “I… I like it.”

Albus’ cheeks were on fire, and he could do nothing but stare at Scorpius dumbly, his mind racing with thoughts that he wanted to say out loud: _‘I like talking to you too, even though I’m rubbish at it. I like this. I like_ you _, and I don’t know what to do about it.’_ But he couldn’t say that. Scorpius was just being friendly, wasn’t he? He obviously liked talking to people in general, not just Albus.

The silence between them stretched on, until Scorpius’ smile dimmed and he looked away, his cheeks a faint pink. He looked disappointed.

For the second time that morning, Albus wished he could kick himself. Hard. He didn’t know _why_ Scorpius was disappointed, but it was clear that it was his fault. He’d fucked up somehow.

He was scrambling for something to say, something that would fix this and bring back the simple ease with which they’d been talking to each other, but, to his immense relief, Scorpius beat him to it.

“What are these creatures, exactly?” he said abruptly, his eyes on the Pygmy Puff cage. “I haven’t seen them anywhere apart from here, but they look a bit like…” Scorpius clicked his tongue, looking a tad frustrated with himself. “I don’t know the English word, but in French we call them _Boursoufs_.”

“You mean Puffskeins?” Albus said, grateful for the change of subject.

“Yes, I think that’s it.” Scorpius carefully reached out a hand to pet one of them, and laughed lightly when they all crowded around it, vying for his attention. “But I didn't know they could be so small—my great-grandfather Hyperion has one and it’s almost as big as a Quaffle.”

“Oh, these aren’t actual Puffskeins, they’re just Pygmy Puffs.”

“Pygmy Puffs,” Scorpius said to himself, except it sounded more like ‘Peegmee Puffs’, which was unfairly cute and did nothing to slow Albus’ still-accelerated heartbeat. “They’re _adorable_.” Scorpius’ tone was soft, and the look of pure adoration on his face as he watched one of the creatures energetically hop up and down on his finger was almost too much for Albus to handle. His whole face had lit up, his eyes were wide with wonder, and he looked so bloody _endearing_ that Albus had to lower his gaze. His cheeks felt too warm.

He cleared his throat. “That one’s Whizzbee,” he said, referring to the purple Pygmy Puff that was using Scorpius’ finger as a makeshift trampoline.

“Do they all have names?” Scorpius asked curiously.

“Nah, just that one. He earned it—ate a whole Fizzing Whizzbee on his own, the idiot. He got so sugar high we had to let him out of the cage so he could bounce around the shop until he calmed down.”

Scorpius let out an affectionate little ‘aw’ that tugged at Albus’ heartstrings.

“D’you want to hold him?” he asked, trying to sound casual and barely succeeding.

Scorpius looked up at him. “I can?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Opening the Pygmy Puff cage was always tricky because they were all naturally curious and too eager to get out and explore, but Albus managed to scoop up Whizzbee and avoid all escape attempts. He grinned triumphantly at the Pygmy Puff, which blinked up at him with its dark little eyes, and deposited it on Scorpius’ cupped hands. Whizzbee immediately scuttled up Scorpius’ arm until it reached his shoulder, and then proceeded to nuzzle his neck. Scorpius let out a surprised giggle.

“Do they make good pets?” he asked, looking delighted as he stroked the Pygmy Puff’s fur.

“Yeah, ‘course they do. My sister has two and they’re alright, just a bit noisy when they get excited. Loads of Hogwarts students have one, and they’re pretty popular as Christmas presents, as you can see.”

Scorpius nodded. “Ah, I wasn’t sure. Everything in this shop seems very… suspicious. I mean, everything’s incredible,” he hastened to add, “I’m not criticising your uncles’ shop, but… Well, there are sweets that look delicious but make you ill or turn you into a canary or make your hair fall out. And it doesn’t _seem_ like the best place to buy Christmas presents, but it’s so full all the time.”

“Excuse me, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes make _perfect_ Christmas presents. And birthday presents. And any kind of present, really, there’s a product for every occasion because we’re just that amazing and _miles_ better than that new Italian joke shop down the street,” Albus said with a winning smile and his best ‘customer voice’, throwing out an arm dramatically as he gestured to the shop. “Am I doing good advertising? Do you feel compelled to spend all of your money here?”

Scorpius laughed. “A bit, yes. I might actually get one of these,” he said, glancing down at the Pygmy Puff. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet. I’ve just moved here and it gets a bit lonely sometimes—I mean, I know some of the people in my classes, but it’s strange, notliving with my parents or even being in the same country as them anymore. I can’t even see them whenever I want to because the regulations on international Flooing are so strict here.” He patted the top of Whizzbee’s head with his forefinger. “So maybe one of you could keep me company at home. And I’m sure I could persuade Monsieur Armand to let me bring you to Tincture and Sprigs, or maybe I could keep quiet and hide you in my pocket, and it could be a _secret_ ,” he said in a hushed voice.

He was so fucking cute Albus was going to _implode_.

Scorpius kept cooing at Whizzbee for a little while, but eventually the Pygmy Puff caught sight of Albus and started jumping up and down again, making excited squeaky noises.

“Oh, do you want Albus to hold you now?” Scorpius asked, smiling. He let it scuttle back down onto his palm and held it out to Albus.

Albus rolled his eyes, but let Whizzbee hop onto his hand and run up to his shoulder, wondering how something so small could have so much energy. Whizzbee had been like that since before the sugar high incident, he recalled.

The Pygmy Puff tried to nuzzle his neck too, but something tugged at the collar of his shirt and hesuddenly remembered the paper dragon that had been slumbering there. “Oi, wait, you’ll crush it—” he said, alarmed, reaching up a hand to grab Whizzbee, but it was too late.

The Peruvian Vipertooth took flight, circling Albus’ head once before hovering a little too close to his nose. Despite being made of paper and having no features, it somehow managed to convey its discontent at being woken up from its nap by a hyperactive ball of fluff.

“Um,” Albus said glancing at Scorpius uncertainly, not sure how potentially embarrassing this was on a scale from one to ten. Was it weird that he’d been carrying the dragon around like that? It was basically an envelope. A very pretty, very elaborate envelope that the boy he fancied had made.

Maybe it wasn’t weird, but it was definitely a bit pathetic.

“ _Oh_.” Scorpius’ voice was so soft that he almost didn't hear it. He was staring at the copper paper dragon with wide eyes, lips parted and cheeks slowly turning more and more pink. Was that good? Bad? Albus started to panic slightly. “That’s one of—that’s my—”

_Crash!_

They both winced in unison, turning to look at the end of the aisle, which lead to the middle of the shop. Albus groaned when he saw the upturned cauldron and spilt Merrymaking Mélange, which was staining the floor green as it spread. He’d _known_ someone would knock it over, he’d been warning Andrew Finch-Fletchley—who was in charge of the displays—for days, but his words had fallen on deaf ears because obviously customer safety was nothing compared to ‘the aesthetic’. And now he’d be expected to clean up even though his break wouldn’t end for a few more minutes.

“I should—er—go,” he said, wincing again when he heard another crash as someone slipped on the spilt potion. “Rose’ll be ticked off if I don’t give her a hand.”

Scorpius was biting his lower lip. “I—yes, of course,” he said, sounding flustered and fidgeting with his hands. His eyes kept flickering to the dragon, his cheeks steadily going redder and redder. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have distracted you for so long.”

“I _like_ being distracted by you.” The words left Albus’ lips before he’d thought them through. “I mean, I like being distracted _in general_ , but I’m glad we… er… talked.”

Scorpius met his gaze and smiled nervously. “So am I. Maybe we can… do it again soon?” He looked hopeful.

Albus smiled back. “‘Course we can.” He hesitated for a second before adding, “You can talk to me while I’m working, you know. As long as I’m not dealing with a customer or whatever, which doesn’t happen that often, but if you want you can come over and… yeah.” Rose would have a field day with that if she saw them, but the teasing would be worth it.

Scorpius’ face lit up. “I’ll do that, then, if you’re not too busy,” he said happily. “And I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Albus nodded. “Tomorrow.”

And with that, they said goodbye to each other, Scorpius throwing one last look at the Peruvian Vipertooth with an expression that Albus couldn't figure out. Frowning to himself, he began to make his way over to the mess and the gathered crowd, briefly stopping by the back room to drop off his notebook and Santa hat. He had to look like a right madman, with a paper dragon on one shoulder and a hyperactive Pygmy Puff on the other (he’d forgotten to put Whizzbee back in his cage). Thankfully, given that he worked in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where madness and chaos reigned, he didn’t stand out too much.

A while later later, as he and Andrew Finch-Fletchley—Rose had run off to deal with some idiot who’d attempted to steal a box of fireworks—tried to figure out how to get rid of the stickiness the Merrymaking Mélange had left on the floor, he found himself repeating Scorpius’ words over and over in his head.

_‘It’s nicer to talk in person, isn’t it? I wish we could do it more often. I… I like it.’_

Scorpius wanted to talk to him, and _he_ wanted to talk to Scorpius, and surely there had to be a way that was less public? Because Rose was the least of his worries: his uncles were there too, Teddy popped in every now and then, and James had a habit of dropping by unannounced and staying there all morning. He didn’t want any of them—except perhaps Teddy—to know about Scorpius or figure out that Albus had a crush the size of the bloody moon.

His gaze fell on the empty cauldron of Merrymaking Mélange. They’d have to brew some more, he thought, his heart skipping a beat as an idea began to form in his mind. And someone would have to go and buy the ingredients, right? There was always _someone_ who had to go to the apothecary.

To his uncles’ surprise and Rose’s amusement, over the following days Albus became _very_ interested in anything to do with Tincture and Sprigs and solicitously offered to visit the shop whenever they needed anything from it, which suddenly seemed to be quite often.

Oops, someone had _accidentally_ ordered twenty-four lionfish spines instead of forty-two, so someone had to go back to fetch the remaining ones. Oh dear, Tincture and Sprigs had given them an extra bottle of dittany, so someone should probably return it. Maybe Uncle George could try to add some lavender to the Flirting Fancies to counteract the occasional side effects? Oh, they didn’t have any lavender? Albus could go and buy some, no problem.

That posh side street next to Gringotts was now as familiar to him as any of the main streets, and Tincture and Sprigs no longer seemed so intimidating, especially when Scorpius was waiting for him behind the counter.

“ _Bonjour,_ ” Albus would say breathlessly as soon as he walked through the door.

Scorpius would always roll his eyes and click his tongue. “Almost there. You have to soften the ‘j’ and make the ‘r’ more guttural,” he’d chastise playfully. “Like this: _bonjour_.” And of course it sounded musical and perfect.

“But you understood me just fine without the fancy pronunciation, didn’t you?” Albus would say cheekily.

And then Scorpius’ gaze would flicker to Albus’ shoulder, where one of his paper dragons would be pacing or sleeping or flapping its wings, and he always blushed and hesitated, seemingly on the verge of saying or asking _something_ , but he never did, just like Albus.

Instead, he’d begin to chatter away and they’d end up talking about all sorts of things, and always for longer than they should, but thankfully Rose hadn't called Albus out on it (yet). Their conversations stopped focusing on work stuff and began to branch out, and little by little Scorpius became more than just the cute French boy Albus had liked to admire from afar—he was still French and he was still cute (cuter, even), but now Albus knew that he had a ridiculous sense of humour, that he was a self-proclaimed geek, and that he was full of this boundless positive energy that never failed to make him smile.

He also learned that Scorpius had lived in Normandy for most of his life. He’d studied in Beauxbatons, which was another wizarding school that was somewhere between Spain and France, but he’d always wanted to go to Hogwarts and reckoned he’d be a Ravenclaw. He loved flying and played Seeker like his father, and his favourite British team was the Tutshill Tornadoes (he’d said it was ‘adorable’ that Albus supported the Chudley Cannons, and Albus had been so busy dealing with the butterflies in his stomach that he hadn’t complained about the jibe against his team). He gushed about his parents constantly, especially his mum, who was a Healer. He asked a lot of questions, but he talked even more, like he couldn’t bear the idea of keeping his thoughts to himself. He was very overwhelming, but in the best way. 

Albus liked it. He liked _him_. A lot. His feelings deepened day by day, with every stolen conversation and paper dragon, and it was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

 

* * *

 

“… and that wasn’t even the worst thing, no, you won’t _believe_ what happened just before you came in today,” Scorpius was explaining to him one morning, flailing his arms for emphasis and amusing Albus with his usual dramatics—he had a way of exaggerating everything that made him an excellent storyteller. Rain pattered against the roof and Albus’ robes were still a bit damp despite the Drying Charm he’d used, but he barely noticed as he rested his elbows on the counter; he was too enthralled listening to Scorpius speak.

“Surprise me,” he grinned.

“You’ve had to deal with some pretty terrible customers in your shop, yes? But try dealing with someone who insists he’s a ‘visionary’,” Scorpius actually made air quotes, looking distinctly disgruntled, “and ‘the next Libatius Borage’ and intends to buy doxy powder and fire seeds _so he can mix them_.”

“You’re kidding,” Albus said, grimacing and cringing internally.

“I wish I was,” Scorpius said mournfully. “But no, this man actually wanted to do that. I had to explain it would blow up, which would be a not-good thing, and almost go a flask of Pepper-Up Potion emptied over my head for not understanding his genius. It's been an exciting morning, as you can see.” He made a face, scrunching his nose in the adorable way that made Albus want to reach up and poke it.

“You should’ve told him to mix the doxy powder with leech juice instead,” he said, smirking. “And take a sip.”

“Oooooh, yes, that’s an interesting idea,” Scorpius mused, tapping his chin. “The resulting bright orange skin would look stunning on him. It’s a shame that even suggesting that would cost me my job.”

Albus rolled his eyes. “Your boss needs a sense of humour.”

Scorpius snorted. “Monsieur Armand is… very committed to doing his job properly,” he said carefully, his lips twitching when Albus raised his eyebrows at him.

“ _Monsieur Armand_ ,” he mimicked, making his voice high-pitched and drawing out those weird Rs. He knew he was getting it pathetically wrong, but he didn’t care.

“You,” Scorpius said, poking him in the chest and making his heart skip a beat, “are not funny.”

“Why are you smiling, then?”

Scorpius stuck his tongue out at him. “Because you’re silly and I pity you. Poor English boy who can’t speak _la belle langue_.”

“But I’m making my Rs more _guttural_.” Albus gave him his best expression of wide-eyed innocence. “Isn’t that what you keep telling me to do? Make it sound like I’m choking on air?”

“Yes, that’s what you _should_ do, but you never do it. Your Rs are _terribles_ ,” Scorpius replied, exaggerating the French word to a ridiculous extent while still making it sound like music. “But I forgive you because you’re adorable when you try.” And there it was again, that shy little smile that was starting to become increasingly common whenever Scorpius… what? Flirted? That was what it sounded like. Whatever it was, it made Albus’ heart start doing somersaults, but this time he somehow managed to pull himself together and nervously smile back.

“Go on, say ‘Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ five times fast, I’m sure _that’ll_ sound adorable,” he teased.

“Only if you try to say _‘le cricri de la crique crie son cri cru’_ ,” Scorpius countered, not even needing to take a breath before letting out that stream of nonsensical sounds.

“That’s not a real language, you’ve just made that up.”

“ _Mais non_ ,” Scorpius said, pretending to be deathly offended as he put a hand to his heart. “I would _never_ do that. Go on, say it, you’ll only improve if you practice.”

“I’m not a lost cause, then?”

“I think there’s still hope for you.” Scorpius’ grey eyes were bright with amusement. “A very, very tiny bit of hope, so we have to act quickly.”

Albus laughed. “Thanks, Scorpius.”

And as soon as the name left his lips, he realised something quite obvious that hadn’t really crossed his mind until then. Scorpius had an R in it, and Scorpius was _French_ (sort of) and oh, fuck, had he been saying it wrong this whole time? And had Scorpius been too nice to correct him? That seemed likely, and he felt a mix of guilt and shame twist in his stomach as he wondered _how_ he could keep fucking up so much without meaning to.

“Am I pronouncing your name wrong?” he said abruptly, not quite able to hide his nerves.

Scorpius blinked at him in confusion. “What?”

“Your name. You’re Scorpius… Malfoy?” The two words together felt strange and clumsy on his tongue. “Shit, I _am_ getting it wrong, aren’t I? Sorry, I know it’s French, but I’m rubbish at French as you’ve already seen—”

“No no no, it’s fine!” Scorpius interrupted him hurriedly. “Perfect, actually. Ten out of ten, thumbs up, excellent pronunciation.” He smiled nervously at him. “It’s technically Latin, so there isn’t really a correct way to say it. My friends use the French pronunciation, my parents use the English, French or German one depending on what language they’re speaking to me in… As long as you don’t call me ‘Scorpio’—no, don’t look surprised, some people have actually called me that—I’m fine with it. So you get full marks for pronunciation, I’m very impressed.”

His shoulder sagged with relief. “Okay, then. Scorpius Malfoy.” It gave him a thrill to say it again, and he managed a small smile. “You’re named after the constellation, right?” 

“Yes.” Scorpius looked a bit sheepish. “Strange name, I know, but I quite like it.”

Albus shrugged. “As someone whose first name is Albus, I can’t judge.”

Scorpius’ eyes widened. “Albus is lovely, though!” he reassured him, sounding offended on his behalf. Then his cheeks went pink again. “I mean your name, not _you_. Not that _you’re_ not lovely, which you _are_ , but… yes. Sorry. Shutting up now.”

They were both blushing now.

“We didn’t ever introduce ourselves properly, did we?” Scorpius mused after a few moments.

They hadn’t. Albus only knew Scorpius’ first name because of the paper dragons, and maybe Scorpius had found out what _his_ name was sooner, because of the tag on his Wheezes uniform, but they’d never actually discussed them until now. It hadn’t seemed necessary, they’d been so eager to skip ahead and talk about other things. Did Scorpius even know Albus’ surname?

“Yeah. This kind of… happened on its own.”

“Well, my father says proper introductions are important, and I agree, so…” Scorpius stepped out from behind the counter and walked over to Albus so they were standing eye to eye, with nothing in between. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he clasped his hands behind his back and grinned. “It’s _very_ nice to meet you, Albus.”

“And you too, Scorpius,” he replied, copying his pompous manner with a grin. “A pleasure.”

He was going to hold out a hand for him to shake, but Scorpius suddenly leaned in, almost giving him a heart attack—for one wild second, he thought Scorpius was going to kiss him. He tensed, his cheeks burning. Scorpius froze, his lips parted, and time seemed to stop as they looked at each other. He was so close that Albus could see the faintest specks of blue in his eyes, and for a moment nothing else seemed to exist or matter in the world. He could hear a dull thud in his ears and he realised it was his heartbeat, drumming out a wild rhythm. Their lips were an inch apart. If he made the tiniest movement, if he tilted his chin just slightly, they’d be kissing. His heart gave a leap, and he was seized by the impulse to just _do it_ , and he—

“I’m _so_ sorry!” Scorpius squeaked out, jerking back and breaking the spell. “I didn’t mean to—I forgot…”

Albus could only stare at him, his dazed mind scrambling to cling to any coherent thought until one finally caught on. Too late he realised that this… _thing_ … had been a French thing. Nothing more. His aunt Fleur always greeted them all with a kiss on each cheek, and so did Victoire and Dominique sometimes. He hated it. Usually.

“It’s fine!” he said hurriedly. The back of his neck felt hot, and he tried desperately to not let his mind wander and start fantasising about Scorpius actually kissing him on the cheek. Or the lips. Or any part of his body, really, he wasn’t picky. “You don’t have to— _I’m_ the one who’s sorry—”

“But I—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Albus insisted. “I know, I get it.” His heart was still racing. “Another weird French thing.”

Scorpius had looked pained, worrying his bottom lip as if trying to stop himself from blurting something out, but at hearing Albus’ words he snorted. “It’s not _weird_ ,” he protested. “I resent that.”

Albus managed a weak smile, his heart still beating frantically. “It’s weird and you—” 

He cut himself off with a strangled yelp, flinching violently. He took a step back and reached for the back of his neck, which was being viciously tickled by something. Scorpius watched bemusedly as he began to hop on the spot, cursing under his breath, trying to reach…

“ _Ha_!” His hand closed around something small and fluffy, and he pulled it out from inside the collar of his robes. Not sure if he felt more triumphant or irritated, he held up the culprit.

Whizzbee the Pygmy Puff blinked up at him with his dark little eyes, looking absolutely delighted to be there and not giving a damn about how he'd just made Albus look like an idiot.

“How did _you_ get here?” Albus asked him, aghast. Whizzbee replied with a joyful chirp.

“Wha—oh, hello!” Scorpius said brightly, beaming at the Pygmy Puff. “I know you, don’t I?”

Whizzbee caught sight of Scorpius and squeaked, practically vibrating with excitement. Looking equally as delighted, Scorpius poked him. “ _T’es joli comme un coeur_ ,” he cooed.

“He's a pest, that’s what he is,” Albus grumbled. He cupped the bright purple Pygmy Puff in his hands and scowled at it. Whizzbee responded with another loud, joyful squeak. “Fluffy git, I have no idea how he got out of the cage, someone probably didn’t close it properly…” He tried to dropWhizzbee into his robe pocket, but the Pygmy Puff had other ideas. With stubborn affection, it wrapped its long, thin tongue around Albus’s index finger. He tried to shake it off, but it just dangled from there like a yo-yo, squeaking joyfully. Albus gave an exasperated sigh. “ _Clingy_ fluffy git.”

“Oh no, don't be mean to him!” Scorpius said, dismayed.

“You have him, then, if you like him so much,” Albus replied petulantly, holding out his hand. Whizzbee swung back and forth like a happy little pendulum.

Scorpius held out his hands and a dazzling smile spread across his lips when Whizzbee fell onto them. “Hello, friend,” he gushed, holding the Pygmy Puff close to his face. “Hello, little _Wheez_ … _Wheezzbee_?”

“Almost,” Albus told him with faux sweetness, smirking. “You’re making the ‘i’ too French, I’m afraid.”

Scorpius laughed. “Fine, I deserve that.” And then he turned his attention back to Whizzbee and began to murmur in French, his voice soft and melodious. Albus would have teased him for being so enamoured, but he was too busy mentally kicking himself for being jealous of a sentient ball of fluff.

This didn’t last long, however, as the sound of the clock striking midday made them both jump. It took Albus a moment to realise it was late, _very_ late. He’d been away from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes for well over half an hour, and someone was bound to have noticed. Rose was either going to kill him or tease him for the rest of his life, and he honestly didn’t know which option was worse.

“I should go,” he said hurriedly, grabbing the small box of sneezewort he’d originally been sent to pick up. “Before Rosie storms in here and blows up at me, which Monsieur Armand probably wouldn’t approve of.”

Scorpius huffed out a laugh. “He doesn’t like her very much, he says she’s too impatient.”

“And he’s absolutely right,” Albus muttered, trying to fit the box into his bag. “What does he say about me? Nothing good, I s’pose. I thought he was going to kick me out the first time I came here.”

“He likes you, actually.”

Albus’ eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding.”

Scorpius grinned. “No, no, I’m being serious. He likes that you want to be a Potioneer. And he likes that we’re friends. He approves.”

There were a million questions Albus wanted to ask, starting with how the hell he’d earned that man’s approval, but he went with: “You’ve told him about the Potioneer thing?”

Scorpius blinked at him. “Yes, of course. Should I not have done that?” His brow furrowed, and he looked worried. “Sorry, I just think it’s interesting, and _he’s_ a Potioneer, so I thought…”

“No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry,” Albus hastened to say, trying not to focus too much on the fact that Scorpius found something about him _interesting_. “I just didn’t think you’d, you know, talk about me.”

For some reason, Scorpius blushed. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. “We don’t talk about you _all_ the time,” he said quickly. “Just sometimes. Monsieur Armand knows that we chat whenever you’re here, so he asks questions. But not in an angry way! In a nice way. He’s really quite kind once you get to know him. I’m sure he’d be happy to teach you about Healing potions if you wanted to learn.”

“Right,” Albus said, still a bit confused. “Well, maybe someday.” He finally managed to fit the box of sneezewort into his bag, which he then closed and slung over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget _Wheezzbee_ ,” Scorpius said with a small smile, handing him the Pygmy Puff, which thankfully didn’t protest this time when it was dropped into Albus’ pocket.

To Albus’ surprise, however, Scorpius didn’t let his hand drop. Instead, he took a deep breath, as if preparing himself, and held it out properly for him to shake, arching an eyebrow—an invitation. A silent apology for the misunderstanding from before, maybe. Smiling, Albus didn’t hesitate before taking it.

And then, before he could even begin to process anything that wasn’t Scorpius’ eyes, and how wonderfully his hand fit against his own, and how warm it was, and how he wanted to keep holding it for the rest of forever if he could get away with it… Scorpius bowed slightly, raising Albus’ hand to his lips, and gently brushed them over his knuckles.

When he straightened up, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, Albus could only stare. His mouth felt completely dry, and he couldn’t have spoken even if he’d had anything to say. But he didn’t. He could only ask himself over and over if that had actually happened.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Scorpius asked uncertainly, his grey eyes searching Albus’ face. He looked almost afraid, as if he thought Albus might not want to come back. As if he thought he’d taken things too far and upset him.

Couldn’t he hear Albus’ heartbeat? Couldn’t he feel how his fingers trembled?

“Yeah,” he said dazedly, still thinking about that kiss. He gave himself a little shake. “Yes, of course. _Au revoir_.” He grinned, making sure to exaggerate the accent again because he knew it would make Scorpius smile.

It did. “Almost perfect. _Au revoir_ , Albus.”

As he faced the pelting rain on his way back to the joke shop, making sure Whizzbee was safely tucked into his robe pocket and protected from the cold, he found himself replaying that kiss over and over, wishing he’d done something other than stand there like an idiot. But what could he have done? Pull Scorpius in and snog the living daylights out of him as if this were one of those disgustingly cheesy Muggle films Lily liked to watch? For all he knew, that had simply been another weird French thing. And, of course, that made him think of that almost-kiss from before, that moment where everything had been perfectly still and the very air had seemed to spark with anticipation. It would have been so easy to lean in…

Maybe Scorpius had been waiting for it. Maybe he’d wanted it as much as Albus.

Maybe.

 

* * *

 

Days later he was still overanalysing every tiny detail. The colour of Scorpius’ eyes, how soft and inviting his lips had looked, how warm his hand had felt… They hadn’t brought up the kiss again, but it felt like something had shifted. The still wrote to each other, Albus’ paper dragon collection growing day by day, and of course he kept coming up with ways to visit Tincture and Sprigs, but things felt _different_. They talked, and sometimes it was just friendly, and sometimes Scorpius did that flirting thing again, and Albus was slowly finding it easier to flirt back, but nothing was coming out of it except a lot of blushing and stammering on both parts. Was he expected to take the first step? Should he wait for Scorpius to do it? He was starting to lose his mind a bit.

He didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on it, though. Christmas was just days away and Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was busier than ever, full of rowdy kids, stressed-out mothers, and clueless fathers that were exhausting to deal with. Albus spent most of his day being yelled at, having to answer stupid questions, and begging Andrew Finch-Fletchley to find another spot for the cauldron of Merrymaking Mélange because he _really_ didn’t want to clean that sort of mess again. If it weren’t for Scorpius’ dragons and silly fun facts, as well as those stolen conversations in the apothecary, he would’ve been bloody miserable.

And, of course, the approaching holidays meant that Lily had finally come back home. This, coupled with the fact that James had been given a week off from Quidditch training and had chosen to spend them with his family, meant that the Potter household was, to Albus’ dismay, a great deal more chaotic and noisy than it had been during the term. He’d missed his siblings and was grateful to have them back, but Merlin, they were a handful.

Just a few days before Christmas Eve, he was sprawled on his bed, tossing a Quaffle in the air and catching it while he tried to ignore the obnoxiously loud music that was blaring from James’ room. He wouldn’t mind if his brother played something _decent_ , like The Fwoopers’ latest hit, but James had shitty taste in music.

Toss. Catch.

Spinning the Quaffle in his hands, he glanced at the row of paper dragons on his windowsill. A Ukrainian Ironbelly stood front and centre, as it was the one Scorpius had given him that very morning. They’d been discussing plans for the holidays, and Scorpius had mentioned he’d be staying in England because his parents were coming over. Albus had almost— _almost_ —made the most of that chance to ask if they could maybe meet up and go out for a coffee in a very non-platonic way, but he’d chickened out at the last second. Again.

Toss. Catch.

It wasn’t that he _didn’t_ want to ask Scorpius out, he mused. He did. Very much. Or rather, he wanted to skip all of the complicated and potentially disastrous ‘confessing your feelings’ nonsense and just jump straight into dating him and being able to hold his hand and kiss him when he was being especially cute, which was most of the time. Actually taking that first step and asking Scorpius out was _terrifying_ , even though Scorpius had given him no reason to think he’d react badly to it. Hadn’t he kissed Albus’ hand? That meant _something_ , didn’t it? Albus didn’t have much experience with this whole dating thing, but he wasn’t completely clueless.

Toss. Catch.

And yet, every time he thought about asking Scorpius out he’d start to second-guess everything, to convince himself that he was reading this wrong, that he was going to ruin this wonderful, effortless friendship they had, that Scorpius couldn’t possibly fancy him. Why would he? 

Toss. Catch.

He couldn’t do it. He’d fuck it up somehow, because that was what Albus Severus Potter did.

Toss. Catch.

But he _wanted_ to do it.

Toss. Catch.

He shoved his anxiety away, choosing instead to think about Scorpius. About his grey eyes and bright smile and endearing eagerness. He wondered what it would be like to kiss him. He’d been wondering that _a lot_ during these past few days. Scorpius would taste of something sweet because his robe pockets were full of Pepper Imps and delicious French bonbons that he’d shared with Albus, and his lips would feel soft and wonderfully warm against his own, and his hair would feel silky-smooth beneath Albus’ fingertips…

Toss. Catch.

He would’ve gladly lost himself in those happy thoughts all afternoon, but because no one in the Potter household (except him) seemed to know that privacy was a _thing_ that some people liked to have, Lily strolled into his room unannounced, almost making him fall of the bed as he scrambled to sit up. His cheeks burned, and an irrational part of him feared his thoughts about Scorpius would somehow be written all over his face.

Lily, however, didn’t seem to notice anything as she collapsed next to him on the bed, sighing pitifully. “Aaaaaaal,” she whined. “I’m bored.”

Albus’ eyebrows shot up, wondering why she was acting like this was _his_ problem. “Be a good pre-N.E.W.T. student and go study, then.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I don’t see _you_ studying for your Tap these days.”

“Touché,” Albus admitted, spinning the Quaffle in his hands again. His lips twitched as he imagined what Scorpius would say if he heard his horrid pronunciation, because he was definitely getting it wrong. Perhaps he could ask him how to say it properly the next time he saw him, and that way they’d start talking, and maybe he could…

“Did you make this?” Lily suddenly demanded, snapping him out of his thoughts. Without him noticing, she’d moved over to the window and was now kneeling before it, making heart eyes at the paper Ukrainian Ironbelly on the windowsill. She poked it gently, looking like she was seconds away from adopting it, just like she’d adopted her two Pygmy Puffs, an overly cuddly Kneazle, and a Bowtruckle she’d named Twigston.

“Nah.” Albus tossed the Quaffle up into the air.

“Did your French boy make it, then?”

Albus froze, forgetting about the Quaffle until it came down and smacked him on the forehead. Swearing loudly, he sat up and rubbed at the sore spot before narrowing his eyes at his sister. “Who told you—”

“Hugo and Rose were bickering about something the other day and it sort of slipped out,” Lily said dismissively, as if the fact that their cousins were apparently arguing about Albus’ love life was completely normal. “Is it true, then?”

“He’s not _my_ French boy,” Albus muttered.

“But there _is_ a French boy,” Lily insisted. “And you fancy him.”

He wanted to deny it, but he hated keeping things from his sister. And what was the point, anyway? He sighed and nodded.

Lily grabbed a Chudley Canons cushion from his desk chair and threw it at him, startling him. “I can’t believe you _finally_ have a real crush and you haven’t told me!” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“I’ve had other crushes before!” Albus protested, hugging the cushion to his chest.

“Gonçalo Flores doesn’t count. And neither does Noah Hopkirk because we’ve _all_ had a crush on him, he was the most stupidly handsome boy at Hogwarts,” she quickly added, seeing that Albus was going to argue again. “And anyway, this is different, isn’t it?”

He hesitated before nodding again. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Her expression softened. “What’s he like?”

“You’re just here because you want to gossip with Rose later, aren’t you?”

“I’m here to support my favourite brother in this trying time because having a crush is the worst,” she said, pretending to be offended as she plopped down next to him on the bed. The she grinned. “And yeah, I need to know this. Spill, please.”

Albus huffed. “Okay. Fine. His name is Scorpius. He works in that fancy apothecary next to Gringotts. We write to each other at work. He’s really funny, and he talks a lot but in a _good_ way, not like Rose, and he’s sweet, and he’s got a fantastic face, and I like him, and I think he likes me back but I’m not sure, and I don’t know what to do.” He rolled over, burying his face in the cushion. “And he bought me coffee the other day,” he added, his voice muffled.

He’d complained about lack of caffeine in one of his messages, and a little while later he’d returned to the till after helping a customer only to discover a steaming cup of black coffee from Florean Fortescue’s waiting for him, with a little Swedish Short-Snout perched on the lid and a note that read: **_‘I’m slightly concerned about your taste in coffee, but I recall you mentioned you like it this way. Enjoy!’_** How the cup had got there, he had no idea, and he hadn’t spared it much thought. He’d been too busy experiencing heart palpitations because Scorpius had drawn an _actual_ heart next to the ‘enjoy!’.

A friendly, completely platonic heart?

A _‘please date me’_ heart?

Merlin, he was so fucked.

“Ah, then it’s true love,” Lily said dryly. “There is no greater sign of devotion than buying Albus Potter coffee.”

He turned his head to look ather. “Be serious, Lils.”

“Okay, fine. You fancy him, he clearly fancies you. Why aren’t you dating yet?”

“I said I _think_ he fancies me,” Albus muttered mournfully. His cheek was completely squished against the cushion, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. “He probably doesn’t and this is all just bloody wishful thinking or whatever…”

_He kissed my hand. He told me I’m lovely. He writes to me every day. Last week he told me he liked how my hoodie matched my eyes._

“Albus, please,” Lily began, sounding like she was dying to give him a good whack in the head, “the boy is making you the cutest paper dragons and buying you your favourite kind of coffee. _I_ wouldn’t do that for you, and I’m your sister.”

He snorted. “Thanks, Lily Lulu. Love you too.”

She nudged him playfully. “You know what I mean, Al. If he’s doing so much for you, it means he likes you lots and you two need to talk about it and stop wasting time. It’s that simple.”

It _did_ sound simple when she said it like that.

“Is it?” he asked doubtfully.

“Yeah.” She ruffled his hair, trying to be reassuring.

The truth was staring at him in the face and he knew it, but it was too good and too easy to believe. There had to be a catch. Wonderful boys like Scorpius didn’t fall for ordinary boys like Albus. They fell for the Noah Hopkirks and Rose Granger-Weasleys of this world.

Albus sighed and rolled over, hugging the pillow to his chest again. “I want to believe you, but I don’t.”

“Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t believe me either.,” Lily said breezily. “But you won’t find out if I’m right or wrong unless you _talk to him_. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” His heart stuttered. “But that’s too _soon_ , I have to—”

“Spend more time pining and driving yourself mad because you overthink things way too much?” Lily said, not unkindly. “Just do it, Al. Go get yourself a French boy.” She nudged him gently. “For all you know, he has the same doubts you do, so channel your inner Gryffindor—I know he’s there somewhere, the rest of us must’ve rubbed off on you throughout the years—and put the both of you out of your misery, yeah?”

 

* * *

 

 

The following day, he found himself in the back room of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes again, surrounded by bubbling potions as he brewed a fresh batch of Fainting Fancies.

 

**_Add three drops of salamander blood, stir counterclockwise four times. Pour exactly 100ml of armadillo bile, then stir clockwise once. Potion should now be light blue—if not, seek cover right the fuck now and start remembering Shield Charms, ‘cause you’ll need ‘em._ **

 

Albus’ potion _did_ turn light blue, thank Merlin. He breathed a sigh of relief, squinting as he tried to make sense of Uncle George’s messy scrawl so he could see what the next step was. All Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes recipes were top secret, and they were kept in a large book that only opened for his two uncles. It had almost bitten Albus’ hand off once before Uncle Ron had remembered that particular detail.

He slowly turned the page now, careful not to stain it with the doxy powder on his dragonhide gloves. It was his first time brewing Fainting Fancies, but he was doing an okay job. A _great_ job, even. He felt in control for the first time in a long while, and he hadn’t realised how much he needed that. Just being around potions seemed to calm him and clear his head.

Still, he’d been a bit wary when Uncle George had asked him to brew. He _wanted_ to do it more than anything, but that didn’t change the fact that it technically wasn’t legal.

Of course, Uncle George had found it hilarious. “Who’s going to arrest me if we’re caught?” he’d said with his crooked grin. “My brother-in-law, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement? My sister-in-law, the Minister for Magic? That would make our family lunch on Christmas Day a tad awkward, wouldn’t it?”

And Albus hadn’t been able to argue further, so there he was.

He finished stirring the potion the required amount of times, then lowered the temperature slightly to let it simmer. Sighing deeply, he took off his gloves and ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at how damp it was. It always ended up twice as fluffy as usual when he was potioning.

His gaze fell on the small paper Chinese Fireball he’d placed next to the recipe book, and he poked it gently, smiling when it immediately butted its snout against his forefinger in retaliation. Scorpius had sent it that morning, asking how his weekend had been.

_Scorpius_.

Albus sighed again, with resignation this time.

Lily’s words had stuck with him, and he knew that he had to do something about this. The Christmas holidays were just around the corner, and this daily routine full of paper dragons and sneaky visits to each others’ shops would be put on hold. It felt wrong to not admit his feelings before then.

He tried to be optimistic about it. At best, Scorpius would feel the same way, which would be brilliant and possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him. At worst, Albus would make things horribly awkward, which would probably make Scorpius stop coming to the shop and disappear from his life, which would, in turn, make it easy to move on and return to his usual lonely gay existence. 

Merlin, this all sounded so bloody melodramatic. He’d cringe at himself if he wasn’t so worked up about it.

But he _had_ to talk to Scorpius, and he had to do it today.

After making sure all of the potions were simmering properly and setting a timer, Albus straightened his green hoodie—which he had _not_ picked because Scorpius had said he looked good in it, absolutely not—and nudged the Chinese Fireball, which, to his surprise, didn't land on his shoulder, but flew straight into his hood, as if it wanted to rest out of sight. With a small smile, he squared his shoulders,  and headed out into the shop. It wasn’t too full as it was almost lunchtime, but there were quite a few customers wandering about and samping products. A harried-looking Andrew Finch-Fletchley had been cornered by a group of Hogwarts-age students and was trying his best to answer their questions; Albus gave him a sympathetic smile when their eyes met.

He found Scorpius in the sweets section, which was mercifully empty save for one other boy who was standing at the far end of it. Scorpius was weighing a small mint green box in his hands, lost in thought. He was wearing his Tincture and Sprigs uniform, as usual, and Albus was starting to realise that he would never get tired of how handsome he looked in it. His hair looked particularly soft that day, like dandelion fluff.

He took a deep breath, trying to find that inner Gryffindor that he supposedly had.

Scorpius heard him and looked up, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Oh, _bonjour,_ Albus!” he greeted brightly, like seeing Albus was the best thing that had happened to him all day. “How’s your potioning going?”

“Great, I think.” He’d briefly mentioned it to Scorpius in one of his notes that morning. “I’ve managed not to blow anything up, at least, which is a huge achievement considering half our recipes are made up of extremely volatile ingredients.”

Scorpius laughed. “Are you being careful with the pearl dust?”

“Nah, I’m just throwing liberal amounts of it everywhere ‘cause it’s so cheap and non-flammable,” Albus replied dryly, but his lips twitched when Scorpius laughed again. He felt a surge of pride for being able to make it happen so easily. “I haven’t actually been using it, you know. I’ve mostly been working on Snackboxes.” He nodded at a nearby shelf, which was overflowing with Nosebleed Nougat and Puking Pastilles. The shelf that contained Fainting Fancies, however, was almost empty.

“Ooh, exciting!” Scorpius bounced on the balls of his feet, looking genuinely happy for him, which made Albus’ heart skip a beat. “And very convenient, I was meaning to ask about—” He broke off, glancing down at his shoulder and smiling at the purple ball of fluff that had appeared there. “Oh, hello, _Wheezzbee_ ,” he said calmly. “Have you finally decided to stop tickling my neck?”

Albus stared at the Pygmy Puff incredulously. “Did you get out of the cage _again_?” he said, exasperated.

Whizzbee had developed the habit of sneaking out of his cage every time Scorpius was nearby. He would find a way to hide inside his bag or robe pockets or collar, managing to be remarkably stealthy. He was usually caught before Scorpius left the shop, but once or twice he’d made it all the way to Tincture and Sprigs and had been hastily returned or picked up. He was annoyingly unapologetic about it, and would cling to Albus instead when brought back to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“Not this time,” Scorpius said quickly. “I took him out. I saw that he was on his own because he’s the only Pygmy Puff left, and I couldn’t just leave him there because he seemed so _sad_ , and it’s _Christmas_ , and no one should be alone at Christmas, so I’ve decided that… well…” He bounced on the balls of his feet, looking a bit sheepish. “It’s a shame you’re not working at the till today, because I’m _finally_ going to make my first real purchase. Well, purchases, in plural.” With his other hand, he held up the mint green box he’d been holding; the lettering on it changed colour constantly, slowly making its way through the whole rainbow.

Albus raised his eyebrows. “Metamorph Moondrops? Who’re you pranking? Monsieur Armand?”

Scorpius snorted. “Flamel, no. I like being alive, thank you very much. These are for my parents—they arrive on Thursday and they both have a sweet tooth, so…” He shook the box of Moondrops. “They don’t last forever, do they? And they’re safe? I mean, they don’t make you faint or anything like that?”

“Nah, Moondrops are tame. They last a couple of hours at most.”

“Excellent. I might be disinherited for messing with the trademark Malfoy hair, but it’ll be worth it, especially if Mum takes pictures.” Scorpius’ smile turned mischievous, his eyes sparkling, and Albus felt his breath catch. He wanted to kiss him so badly it was almost painful.

He had to do this.

“Listen, Scorpius.” His voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat. To stop himself from tugging at his sleeves or fidgeting with his hands too much, he clasped them behind his back “I… I wanted to talk to you about something. _Ask_ you something.”

With a flicker of annoyance, he wished the boy standing at the end of the aisle would leave; he didn’t want anyone to overhear this, regardless of the outcome. He considered taking Scorpius to the back room, but he would probably lose his nerve along the way.

Scorpius blinked at him, looking curious and… expectant? Albus’ heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”

“Well, the thing is, I…”

Albus noticed a flicker of movement over Scorpius’ shoulder. Very casually, the boy had grabbed a box of Singing Sugarplums and was putting it in his trouser pocket.

“Oi!”

The shout left his lips so suddenly it almost startled him. Both the boy and Scorpius stared at him, the former’s eyes widening in alarm while the latter just looked confused.

Under any other circumstances, Albus probably would've deflated a bit, but he was so pissed off after being interrupted that he stalked past a very bewildered Scorpius, heading decisively towards the boy. Out of all the shops, aisles, and hours, he had picked the _worst_ possible time and place to steal.

“Pockets,” Albus snapped at the boy once he’d reached him.

The boy turned out his jacket pockets, a defying glint in his eye. He was very short, with messy brown hair and a smattering of freckles, and couldn’t be older than fourteen. “Nothing here. Can I go?”

“ _Trouser_ pockets,” Albus said irritably. “I know you’ve nicked something and I know it’s there, so you either take it out or I summon it. Your choice.”

Scowling darkly, the boy shoved a hand into the right pocket and took out the box of Singing Sugarplums. “I’m a minor,” he said abruptly, as if this somehow erased the fact that he’d been caught stealing.

“You don’t say,” Albus remarked dryly. “But you can read, right? And you’ve read the sign at the door? ‘Pocket anything and you’ll pay in more than Galleons’?”

“What, you’re going to send me to Azkaban?” the boy said defiantly.

Albus rolled his eyes. “Don’t be daft.”

“Then what—”

“What’s going on?”

Rose was hurrying over to them, striding with a sense of purpose and authority that made it look like she owned the shop. She glanced at Scorpius, who was lingering a few feet away and looking uncomfortable, before focusing on Albus and the boy. She raised her eyebrows.

“He was trying to steal this,” Albus said, nodding towards the box of sugarplums.

Rose pursed her lips but, to Albus’ surprise, she didn’t get angry. Instead, she surveyed the boy carefully. “Can you afford this?” she asked, and Albus’ eyebrows shot up as he noticed a hint of gentleness in her tone. But it made sense: Rose had always been very conscious about money, not because she couldn’t afford things, but because she knew her dad hadn’t been able to when he was her age and she’d really taken it to heart.

“’Course I can, it’s just a stupid joke product,” the boy said derisively.

Albus cringed on his behalf. You never, ever, _ever_ insulted or belittled Uncle Ron’s work at the joke shop in front of Rose. Some idiots at school had made fun of it once, saying it was a ‘downgrade’ after being an Auror and all-around a useless job, and after the verbal pummelling she’d put them through no one had ever made that kind of comment again. 

He glanced at her now, already knowing what he’d see: a spark of anger in her eyes, her wild hair crackling with electricity, her hands curled into fists. It didn’t take much to piss her off, and it was never fun when it happened. She looked ready to spit fire. 

“That ‘stupid joke product’ took months to create,” she began hotly, her eyes narrowed. “But you’re too good for it, aren’t you? Well. _You’re_ staying here while I—”

But they never heard what she was planning on doing. In a fit of desperation (or madness), the boy took off at a run, shoving them both aside as he dived for the other end of the aisle. Albus lunged for him, his hand almost grasping that red jacket before it slipped away from his reach, and he was about to take off after him when he realised something.

The escape route the boy had picked only had one obstacle.

Scorpius.

It was like seeing a Bludger speed towards a Chaser and knowing that it would meet its mark. Completely powerless, Albus could only watch as the boy slammed into Scorpius’ side, tripped, and crashed right into a shelf full of Gabbing Gobstoppers, which tipped over backwards, its hundreds of little jars shattering as they tumbled onto the floor. He gaped at the mess, but his shock quickly turned into pure horror as he saw Scorpius stumble back, his eyes wide as he lost his balance, and begin to fall and fall and fall… until he hit another shelf, sending dozens of boxes of Exploding Mints crashing down.

True to their name, the mints exploded, filling the aisle with bright blue powder that smelled strongly of—surprise, surprise—mint.

There was so much of it that Albus accidentally inhaled some and started to cough. Behind him, Rose began to swear colourfully, using various parts of Merlin’s anatomy as inspiration, but he barely heard her as he managed to choke out, “Scorpius?” His voice rose an octave in his panic. “Scorpius, are you okay?” Had the fall knocked him out? Was he hurt? Bleeding? He couldn’t see anything.

After what seemed like a small eternity, he heard a hesitant, “Oh, I’m grand. This is positively thrilling. Blue powder everywhere, glass all around me, shelves of potentially dangerous products that could unleash mayhem if you knock into them… Wow. Exciting. But yes, I’m all right, I think. Are _you_ okay?”

Relief flooded through him. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, feeling himself relax. 

“And your friend? Rosie?”

“ _Rose_ ,” his cousin corrected huffily from somewhere to his left now. “And ask me that again when I’m not contemplating murder. This is just bloody ridiculous—Thief Boy, whoever you are, don’t you _dare_ move or I will literally evaporate you on the spot. What am I touching? Are you a person?” 

“Yeah, I’m a person and you’re hurting me,” Albus said dryly, wincing slightly as Rose’s nails dug into his forearm.

She swore again. Albus heard a rustling sound, followed by Rose’s voice crying out, “ _Dissipo_!”

The blue powder vanished from the air, but the powerful smell of mint lingered, making Albus sneeze. Rose, however, seemed entirely unfazed as she briskly brushed the remaining powder off her magenta robes and started to make her way towards on the boy, who had wisely listened to her and stayed on the floor. He looked terrified, like a mouse that’s been cornered by a particularly vicious cat.

“You are in _so_ much trouble,” Rose informed him darkly, gesturing for him to get to his feet and grabbing the back of his jacket when he did so. She turned back to Albus, who was struggling to keep his eyes off Scorpius, even though he _did_ seem to be okay. “Al, I’m calling Dad and Uncle George. Don’t touch anything until they say it’s safe to clean up, just make sure your French boy is in one piece.”

She stalked off, leaving a mortified Albus in her wake.

Scorpius didn’t seem to have heard her; he was frantically patting his robes and looking around himself, trying to find something among that mess of broken glass and scattered sweets.

“Scorpius, what—”

“I can’t find _Wheezzbee_ ,” he said, anguished. “He was on my shoulder, but he fell off when I crashed into the shelf, and now I can't find him, and what if he’s hurt or—or the shelf—” His voice cracked, and he looked near tears.

“Hang on, I’ll help you,” Albus said quickly, starting to make his way over towards him. “He’s probably just rolled off somewhere, Pygmy Puffs do that when they’re scared. The ones my sister has—”

His foot slipped on a Gabbing Gobstopper and, with a strangled yelp, he went down, almost smacking the back of his head against the floor. Swearing loudly, he tried to sit up, resting his weight on his hands until he felt a sudden sharp pain in his palm.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, snatching it back. It stung like hell, and he felt something warm begin to trickle down towards his wrist. He turned his hand over, grimacing when he saw blood. Perfect.

“Albus!” Scorpius exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside him. “What’s wrong? What hurts?”

“Nothing, it’s just a cut.”

“Let me look at it—”

“Later,” Albus said dismissively. He’d had worse. One time he’d almost chopped off his finger while attempting to cut a Sopophorous Bean in half only to realise, as he swore loudly and tried to remember Healing spells, that he could just crush the damn thing. “Whizzbee’s more important.”

They called the Pygmy Puff’s name, but heard nothing, not even a faint squeak, in response. They Levitated the shelf together, looked among the broken glass, almost had a heart attack when Scorpius kicked a box of Mints and two of them exploded… but still, nothing.

In the end it was Scorpius who found him. The Pygmy Puff had hidden inside an empty box and was curled up in a corner, trembling.

“Hey,” Scorpius said softly, reaching in and holding out his open palm. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you scared? Poor little _Wheezzbee_ , of course you were. But you don’t have to be anymore.” The Pygmy Puff rolled onto his hand, squeaking desolately. Scorpius began to gently stroke his soft purple fur. “I’m here, I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Is he hurt?” Albus asked, standing up carefully. He’d been flat on the ground by one of the shelves, trying to look underneath it.

“No, I don’t think so. He’s just frightened.”

“Poor thing,” Albus murmured.

He brushed off bits of glass and powder from his jeans, taking Scorpius in. He looked unusually dishevelled, but still beautiful: his hair was a fluffy platinum mess with streaks of bright blue, there was a smear of powder on his left cheek, and his usually immaculate plum robes were also stained. He didn't seem to care—he was focused solely on Whizzbee, who looked very shaken indeed.

This was not how Albus had thought the morning would go, but he couldn’t do anything about it now.

“Do you want to go somewhere quiet?” he found himself asking, holding out his good hand to help Scorpius get to his feet.

Scorpius blinked at it in surprise. “Um. Okay.” He tried to get Whizzbee to hop on his shoulder, but the Pygmy Puff refused, preferring to go into his pocket instead. He probably wanted some peace and quiet for once. Once he was safely tucked away, Scorpius took Albus’ hand and let himself be pulled up.

Albus didn’t let go as he lead them out of the aisle. Scorpius’ palm was soft and warm against his own, and though a part of him was hyperaware of it, he was mostly focused on getting them away from all the noise and mess. He’d completely forgotten about the cut on his other hand.

Having managed to avoid both customers and potentially nosy coworkers, they stepped into the back room, where it was pleasantly dim. It wasn’t as fancy as the one in Tincture and Sprigs, where Scorpius had once taken him, but it was a great deal cosier. The walls had been painted a cheerful shade of robin’s egg blue—a surprisingly calm colour considering Uncle George’s tastes—and the stools and long wooden tables had been designed for comfort as well as practicality. There was even a fake window like the one in his dad’s office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and it showed a view of Diagon Alley with an overcast sky. In front of it was a large sofa that was practically buried under piles of colourful cushions.

Albus led Scorpius there, carefully dodging a few discarded boxes. As soon as they reached it they collapsed on top of it, sighing in unison.

Albus turned his head to look at Scorpius, taking a moment to admire his profile, his straight nose, his messed up hair that looked a bit like dandelion fluff. The streaks of blue in it made his eyes stand out more. “I’m really sorry about that,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know he’d make a run for it, it was such a stupid thing to do, but if I’d moved faster…”

He saw Scorpius swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “It’s—It’s fine. It’s not your fault.” Scorpius’ voice was higher than usual, and it was only then that Albus realised was still holding his hand, and that he’d been rubbing circles onto the back of it with his thumb. He immediately tried to pull away, his cheeks flooding with colour, but Scorpius didn’t let him.

“Is this where you’re hurt?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern as he turned Albus’ hand over and peered at it. There was a long thin cut and some dry blood, but he barely felt it. “There’s no glass, which is good…” Scorpius muttered to himself, examining his hand from different angles. “Does it hurt if you move your fingers?”

Albus waggled them. “Nah.”

“You’re fine, then.” Scorpius dug into the left pocket of his robes, took out his wand, and gently tapped Albus’ palm while muttering something under his breath. The cut sealed instantly. “ _Et voilà_!” he said cheerfully. “Good as new.”

He didn’t let go of Albus’ hand, and Albus didn’t try to pull away this time. He took a deep breath. He’d been interrupted before, and maybe this wasn’t the right time to talk about this, but he had to at least _try_ —

“Oh, you’ve dropped something, I think.” Scorpius’ voice startled him out of his inner pep talk.

Albus followed his gaze, his heart plummeting when he recognised the bright shade of red of the paper Chinese Fireball. It was lying discarded on the floor, unmoving, one of its wings completely crushed. It must have fallen from Albus’ hoodie, and thank Merlin it had happened here and not somewhere in the shop.

“Damn.” Reluctantly letting go of Scorpius’ hand, he went to pick it up, cocooning it in his hands as he took it back to the sofa. Even though it wasn’t a real, living creature, Albus was fond of it, and it hurt to see it broken. “It was sleeping inside my hood, and it must’ve got crushed when I fell…”

“Can I see?” Scorpius offered. He took it gently in his hands, examining the damage. And then, very carefully, he began to fix the bent wing, his brow furrowed in concentration. Albus would never get tired of looking at his hands: they were agile but elegant, and never still. They could drum out little tunes on the counter of Tincture and Sprigs, count and package ingredients with swift precision, make beautiful, delicate paper dragons… He swallowed and looked away.

After a few minutes of silence, Scorpius murmured a spell and, when the dragon fluttered its wings, he smiled sweetly, in that way that had done funny things to Albus’ heart since the very beginning. He watched, his smile flickering slightly, as the Chinese Fireball took flight and immediately sought Albus’ shoulder, just like all the paper dragons before it.

Albus had often wondered if Scorpius Charmed them to do that, or if perhaps he was simply very fond of Albus, and some of that fondness got transferred to the dragons when he used his magic. It was nice to imagine that was the reason.

“You always carry my dragons around,” Scorpius said quietly, his eyes flickering from the Chinese Fireball to Albus. “On your shoulder, or even the top of your head sometimes. Why?”

Albus had been expecting him to ask that for ages, but somehow it still took him by surprise.

“I… They’re good company,” he said, trying to ignore his nerves. “And I don’t want to leave them lying around, they’re too… too well-made. Too special. That's why I take them back home with me, because they’re… they’re amazing. I’ve kept all of them,” he confessed, his heart galloping in his chest as he watched carefully to see how Scorpius would react. Surprise flashed across his features, then confusion, then something that looked a little bit like amazement. Or hope.

“You’ve actually _kept_ the dragons?” he asked slowly.

Albus frowned, puzzled. “What else should I have done with them?”

“I though you’d throw them away. They’re…” Scorpius bit his bottom lip. “They’re just paper.”

“They’re more than that. To me, at least.” He was fiddling with his sleeves again. Part of him wanted to look away just in case this went horribly wrong, but he forced himself to keep looking into those lovely storm grey eyes. “I’ve got all of them in my room, on the windowsill, except I’m going to have to find another place for them because they don’t fit there anymore. My little sister keeps trying to nick one ‘cause she thinks they’re the coolest thing ever, but I won’t let her because they… they matter to me. I like them.”

_I like_ you _._ The weight of the unspoken words hung in the air.

“You do?”

Albus nodded.

Scorpius loosed a breath. “I… I’m glad. That’s why I make them. I can make all sorts of things, but I thought you’d like dragons best.” He pursed his lips for a moment, but then words began to rush out of him, like he’d been holding them in for too long. “And I thought maybe they’d make you smile, because sometimes you look upset when you’re on your own in that shop, and you shouldn’t look like that ever. And you have the most beautiful smile, you know that? It makes your eyes sparkle and go all crinkly, and you have this dimple on your cheek…” Albus’ heart was thundering in his chest, and he could hardly believe what he was hearing. “So I sent the first dragon, and then the second one, and you always wrote back, and you were so funny and sweet, and then you started coming by the shop all the time even though you didn’t have to, and that had to _mean_ something, and I started to wonder if… well… if this wasn’t all in my head.” 

Albus' mouth felt very dry. “I...I wondered, too.”

“So it’s _not_ in my head, then?” Scorpius was looking at him hopefully, a little fearfully.

Albus knew that feeling well.

“No, definitely not.” He took a deep, steeling breath for the third time that morning. “I… I _do_ like you, Scorpius. I like you a lot. And I know I should’ve said this ages ago, but it took me so bloody long to just start _talking_ to you. I kept wanting to introduce myself, but there you were every day, all…” He hesitated before ploughing on. “All gorgeous and adorable and out of my league, and I just couldn’t. You still are all of those things, by the way. Gorgeous and adorable and… yeah.” He looked down, his cheeks burning. He somehow felt relieved and apprehensive at the same time.

There was a long silence, one that made his heart sink and his mind start to question everything. Had he misunderstood? Had he made a horrible mistake and said the wrong thing?

Scorpius suddenly took hold of Albus’ hands and squeezed tightly, making him jump. “I had the same problem!” he exclaimed, smiling reassuringly when Albus’ head snapped up. “I wanted to talk to you so badly, I was even considering buying something and going to your till and somehow starting a conversation that way, but you were so mysterious and you looked so _grumpy_ most of the time.” His eyes were bright, and he looked stunned, happy, _relieved_. “Except when you looked at me and smiled. And that first time you visited the shop, when we talked… It was just so _nice_. I wanted to do it again, but you seemed so shy, so I thought writing would be easier. And it was.” His features softened until he was looking at Albus so fondly that he felt his heart clench. “I like you too, you know. So much. Ever since you accidentally asked that rude lady what kind of blue Pygmy Puff she preferred.”

Albus huffed out an incredulous laugh, trying to wrap his head around what he was saying. “You’re joking, aren’t you? I must’ve looked like such a prat…”

“It was cute!” Scorpius was smiling at him with boundless affection. “You were very embarrassed, but it was adorable. I liked you a little bit then, and then you were so kind after I made you drop that box of sweets, and then you showed up in Tincture and Sprigs and actually _tried_ to speak French and that was it, I was gone, head over heels, besotted, hopelessly crushing on the mysterious English boy with the messy hair and horrible accent.”

“So you started fancying me because you think it’s cute that my French is rubbish?” Albus joked, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“I started fancying you because you’re sweet, because you help people, because you act grumpy around _Wheezzbee_ even though you actually love him… The list is quite extensive, you know, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I could go on for ages.”

“Not as extensive as mine, I bet,” Albus replied.

To his surprise, Scorpius began to laugh. There was nothing unkind about it because he wasn’t laughing _at_ Albus, he was just… happy. It bubbled out of him, joyful and contagious and overflowing with delighted, slightly disbelieving relief. Albus watched him in amazement for a few moments, but it didn’t take him long to join in, and then they were both laughing, and they were still holding hands, and all of Albus’ doubts seemed utterly ridiculous now because this was _right_. It was right and perfect and as natural as breathing.

And at some point Scorpius pulled him closer, or maybe it was the other way round, but suddenly they were almost nose to nose, and their laughter died down, and Scorpius’ smile was as bright as the sun, and his storm grey eyes were sparkling with happiness and anticipation, and he was so beautiful that Albus felt his breath catch, and before he knew it he was leaning in, his eyes fluttering closed.

Scorpius met him halfway, the feel of his soft, warm lips sending tingles down Albus’ spine. It was only a peck at first, but he quickly leaned back in, dropping Albus’ hands so he could wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him even closer, deepening the kiss. They were both tentative, still a little unsure, because this was new and unexpected and so, so wonderful. Albus carefully ran a hand through that silky platinum hair, feeling a rush of pleasure when Scorpius sighed, and he shivered when Scorpius’ fingers brushed the back of his neck, playing with a few strands. He tasted of peppermint and something he was too distracted to identify; somehow so much sweeter than what he’d imagined.

He smiled into the kiss, and Scorpius smiled back, and soon enough kissing started to become difficult because Scorpius was laughing again, but he was doing it in a sweet, happy, breathless way that only made Albus want to kiss him even more, which he did.

They had to stop eventually, resting their foreheads together for a moment before pulling back. They grinned at each other.

“Flamel, we’ve been a bit ridiculous, haven’t we?” Scorpius breathed, laughter still dancing in his eyes. He moved his hands to Albus’ waist again.

“We have,” Albus agreed. “We could’ve been doing this for how long, exactly?”

“Since the first time you walked into Tincture and Sprigs, if it had been up to me.”

Albus laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t have complained. I mean, I probably would’ve fainted or something, but it would’ve been great. I don’t think Monsieur Armand would've been thrilled if he’d caught us snogging behind the counter, though.”

Scorpius snorted. “Oh, definitely not. He’s already grumpy because your visits distract me so much, you know,” he chided jokingly. “He’s told me off _four times_ for ‘sighing after the joke shop boy’.”

“Oops?” Albus said, grinning. His relief was like Firewhisky, bubbly and warm and making him feel so giddy he thought he might just float away.

“Yes, ‘oops’ is right.” Scorpius shook his head. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to concentrate when you visit now.”

“I could say the same,” Albus pointed out.

“ _Ouais_ , it’s a problem.” Scorpius bounced on the balls of his feet, looking at him expectantly. Albus knew exactly what he wanted him to ask, and his heart gave a leap.

“Maybe I could see you _outside_ of Tincture and Sprigs,” he offered. “So I won’t distract you as much. And because I’m running out of excuses to go there and frankly, it’s a miracle no one’s called me out on it yet.”

Scorpius laughed. “That sounds like a good idea. So…”

This was coming out all rushed and messy and overeager, not at all as smoothly as he would’ve preferred, but who _cared_? He was doing it. “So we could… go for a coffee, maybe? Today? After work?”

Scorpius wrinkled his nose. “Oh, I don’t like coffee.”

Albus stared at him, dumbfounded.

Upon seeing Albus’ face, Scorpius hastened to add, the words rushing out of him, “No, no, no, I didn’t mean—I just don’t like coffee _specifically_. But I like other things! Tea, ice-cream, _crêpes_ … Almost anything, really. Except fish! I absolutely will not eat fish, ever. Not that we’d go eat fish. That would be a weird thing to do on a date, wouldn’t it?” A beat passed before Scorpius realised what he’d said. “Not that this is a date!” he added, his face now the same colour as Albus’ uniform. “I mean, it could be. But only if you want to! It doesn’t _have_ to be, even though we’ve literally just kissed—which was brilliant, by the way—it can just be a very nice almost-but-not-quite-date, no labels attached. I mean, personally I—”

“I want it to be a date!” Albus blurted. And now it was his turn to blush as his words caught up to him. “I mean, if that's okay—"

“Yes! Yes yes yes, it’s okay. Very okay. Wonderfully okay. I’ll stop saying ‘okay’.”

Albus’ lips twitched. “Okay.”

They grinned at each other, and Albus had to cup his cheeks and kiss him again. When he pulled back, he took Scorpius’ hands and squeezed gently.

“We can grab some _crêpes_ , then,” he said it with an intentionally bad accent just to make Scorpius laugh, “and you can bring Whizzbee along and teach me how to make paper dragons. Deal?”

Scorpius nodded, his eyes bright, looking every bit as beautiful as on the first day he’d walked into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and turned Albus’ life upside down. “Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who's made it this far!! I really really hope you enjoyed the fic, and I'll love you forever if you could give me some feedback ❤️
> 
> Bilingual Scorpius is based entirely on yours truly (pretty much every single language/culture-related embarrassing thing in this fic has happened to me irl); however, I'm not French in any way and I've probably made some mistakes. If you spot any, please tell me so I can correct them!!
> 
> Special thanks to Rosie for being my personal cheerleader and putting up with me suffering over this fic for way too long. You’re a true Positive Pygmy Puff and ily ❤️
> 
> And happy New Year everyone!!
> 
> Tumblr: per-mare-ad-astra  
> Twitter: @astoriamalfoys


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